Trust Heritage
by chappysmom
Summary: "If I'd had a different kind of father, everything would have been different. I might have wished otherwise, but there's not much about the last twenty years I'd change." After the trip to Buckingham Palace, Sherlock finds out that maybe John's family background was different than he'd thought ... and this time, his father is not the problem. (9 chapters)
1. Chapter 1

NOTE:

I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here.

So, what if John's family background was different than we thought? What if it were pretty much like we said in "Heritage Trust" … except for ONE thing …? He says in that story, "If I'd had a different kind of father, everything would have been different. I might have wished otherwise, but there's not much about the last twenty years I'd change—except maybe seeing all of you." So ... what if, this time, his father were a _good_ man? (And no, you don't need to have read that story for this one to make sense. They're just kind of mirror images of each other.)

* * *

**University**

"No, really, Father. I'll be fine."

Jonathan held the cheque out and said, "I insist. It's a Father's prerogative to give money to one's child at school. Besides, your sister spends less than this on clothes each month. You needn't worry about me being out of pocket."

John sighed and took it with a rueful smile. "Well, I won't say it's not helpful, but I meant it when I told you I wanted to support myself."

"Yes, John, I know, and I don't say it's not admirable, but…" He looked around the dingy flat and John could see him trying not to wince.

"It's _fine_, Dad." John told him. "It may not be to your standards, but it's clean, it's safe, it's close to class, and it's affordable. At this stage of the game, that's all that matters. I'm lucky to have it."

"If you had just let me…"

"No, Dad. That would have defeated the whole purpose of me _doing this on my own_. I won't say I don't appreciate the extra money, but I'm not moving into a flat I can't afford just because it makes you happy."

Jonathan's forehead creased. "I would make up the difference for you…"

John just looked at his father and shook his head. He loved him, but he didn't think they would ever understand each other. His father had grown up with certain expectations as an Earl's son—even a younger son—and he could never understand John's desire to make his own way.

Or well, to want to try to, at least. He certainly couldn't complain about having been brought up in a nice home with all the amenities a boy could ask for. He'd never exactly been extravagant, so it wasn't like he had spent time asking for things he couldn't have—even if money was tight by his father's standards, by those of normal people, he was doing very well for himself.

The biggest problems John had had were with his classmates. He liked to think of himself as a likeable fellow, but there had always been that stigma of being the kid that came from the Big House on the hill. It wasn't his fault his clothes were always newer and more expensive than the rest of his friends, but his mother had wanted him to go to the local school rather than a private one like Harrow or Eton. She had thought it important for him to know "normal" kids.

In theory, in retrospect, he could agree, but it hadn't always been easy. His friends had all known his grandfather was an Earl, and it had affected the way they treated him. Not all the time, but … sometimes.

That was exactly the reason he was doing this, now. He didn't want special treatment—either to his advantage because of the family money, or to his detriment because of his presumed entitled "attitude."

No, he was putting himself through school and was doing it all under his mother's much more common name of Watson, rather than the more rarefied Brandon that his father and grandfather used.

He would earn his own way, damn it. He would make his mother proud in heaven (assuming there was such a place). He would show the world that he, John Hamish Watson Brandon had what it takes to succeed, with no reflection on who his parents were.

The hard part was convincing his father.

On his father's part, just like the school decision when John was a child, he understood the concept. He approved it, even, but he still couldn't quite manage to … let go. He appreciated that his son wanted to be independent, but when he saw where he was living … well, he was having a hard time.

Not that any of this was new, and so John was firm and patient, just like he had been when they'd argued about sports equipment or making sure he had new, pristine uniforms at school. John's feeling was that, as long as things worked and were in good condition, there was no reason to replace them. His father couldn't understand that.

The fights were nothing more than squabbles, though, and both of them ended up giggling about the irony that it was the _parent_ arguing for spending more money while the _teenager_ strove for economy. But then, John's father didn't go to his school, and had no idea how badly John just wanted to fit in.

John had been well aware he was brighter than many of his friends, and had had no objection to being put in the more advanced classes—as long as he still could play rugby or football and hang out with his friends. His father bemoaned the fact that John wasn't one of the school leaders. "You're so smart, so popular," he would say, "Why aren't you head of your class?"

Except, of course, that that was exactly what John had not wanted. It was bad enough being (presumably) the wealthiest kid in his school, and bright enough to attract the wrong kind of attention from his less enlightened mates … he wasn't going to willingly draw a target on his back by putting himself forward. Generations of Brandons might have been leaders, but it had just been easier to go with the flow.

Which brought him to his current situation. He wasn't the first rich, privileged child to yearn to strike out on his own, but he really worked at it. Thanks to his local school, he could adjust his accent away from the rarefied heights his family used. Since he was determined to make his own way, his wardrobe certainly wasn't attracting any attention, and his part-time job at a sandwich shop certainly didn't hurt his impression that he was a poor student like everyone else.

Nor did the name. He was getting his degree under his mother's maiden name, Watson, rather than his father's far more prestigious (and recognizable) Brandon. His father knew, of course, though he was less than happy about it. John had patiently explained that he wasn't ashamed of it or trying to disown the family, just … he didn't want the attention.

"You're coming for Christmas, of course?" his father asked, giving one last, confused glance around the dingy room.

"I wouldn't miss it," John said, "Besides, Grandfather would disown me. You know how much he loves Christmas."

"He certainly does, but he loves having the whole family in one place even more," Jonathan said with a smile. Then he looked solemn again. "He knows, of course, that you're living under your mother's name for school, but your cousins…"

John nodded. "It's not something he wants to broadcast, I understand."

His father paused. "I'm proud of you, you know. I may not always understand, but I am always proud."

"I know," John told him, feeling his eyes prickle. "I am, too."

#

**Army**

"Did you see that new captain? I swear, if his nose were any higher in the air, he'd be a giraffe." Jackson flung himself on his cot, still in his scrubs, not even bothering to pry off his boots.

"Toff-nosed bastard," Murray grumbled as he followed him into the tent. "Probably given everything he ever wanted, never had to work for anything in his life, not like us, right, Watson?"

John watched his friends warily. He hadn't known they'd been assigned a new officer. "Who are we talking about?"

"New officer—on the administrative end, of course. Heaven forbid he should get his lily white hands dirty. God, I hate the upper class. His vowels are so round, I'm surprised he can get them out of his mouth, the idiot." Jackson leaned forward enough to punch at his pillow. "Christ, I'm exhausted."

Now John's eyebrows were raised. He looked back at Murray. "Was he really that bad? What's his name?" he asked, all while praying he didn't know him.

He'd been lucky in the army. Between the uniform fatigues and the actual, bone-sapping fatigue—not to mention and his mother's name—the few army officers who might have known John Brandon, grandson to the Earl of Undershaw had failed to make the connection to Dr John Watson. He had yet to come across another soldier near his own age, though, and lived in dread of the day when his family history would come to the fore.

Because conversations like these had only reinforced his early determination to make his own way. Prejudice was a two-way street, and he dreaded the possibility that his friends and fellow soldiers would look at him differently if they learned of his blue-blooded background.

"Geoffries. Captain Alan Geoffries, and I swear he's one of the youngest captains I've ever seen. He must have bought his way in. There's no way someone that young could have worked his way up like the rest of us poor slobs."

John gave a nod and a chuckle, hoping it didn't come out sounding bitter. He did know Geoffries, and wished he didn't. "Nothing wrong with using the advantages you've got though, right? I mean, as long as he can do his job?"

"That's awfully democratic of you, Watson," Murray told him.

"Yes, well, what can I say? Mum told me it's important to judge people by who they are and what they do, not where they were born."

"And you always do what your Mum says?" Jackson asked, grunting as he tried to pry his boots off without unlacing them.

John gave a non-committal shrug. His friends must have noticed something, though, because Murray tossed a tee-shirt at him. "Missing your Mummy, Watson?"

He just fielded the shirt and lobbed it back. "Ever since the funeral," was all he said, but his friends froze. "Don't worry. It's been over ten years."

"Was she sick?" Murray asked.

"Cancer," John said, not wanting to talk about it. "But my point remains—if this Geoffries is competent, that's all I care about." (Well, that, and hoping he doesn't recognize me, though the last time their families had visited was at least ten years ago.)

"Judging by what we've just seen, I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you," Jackson told him as he stretched out on his bunk. "But by all means, let's be fair. He would probably be just as incompetent if he were a poor bloke like us."

"That's the spirit," John told him.

#

**Years Later**

John wearily heaved his duffel bag to his shoulder and waited his turn, more than ready to get off this blasted aeroplane already. He was anxious to start his leave, but more than that, it had been eight hours and if he didn't get away from certain of his comrades-in-arms soon, he was going to say something he'd regret.

Not that he was feeling particularly good about himself at the moment. By a fluke, he was on the same plane as Captain Geoffries, and too many of his mates had spent the flight joking about the man. Not by name, nothing overt that would get them in trouble, just … the same kind of giggles the trouble-makers in school always made from the back of the room. In his seat, Geoffries had gotten more and more tense as the flight went on, and John had done nothing to stop it.

The problem, so far as he concerned, had nothing to do with Geoffries' blue blood or his alleged privileged background. (Though, just looking at the man or hearing him talk, his personal history was pretty obvious.) No, the problem was with Geoffries himself. John had never liked him on the occasions they had met as a child, and he liked him even less now after serving with him the last few years. The man _did_ go through life as if he expected special treatment, he _did_ act as if he thought he were better than the average soldier.

John considered himself specially qualified on this particular subject and found that he had no patience for that attitude, any more than his mates did. It was just for a completely different reason. He hadn't taken advantage of any connections his own family might have used on his behalf. With the exception of some really nice Christmas and birthday gifts, he had earned his own way on his own salary instead of relying on family money. He had worked damned hard to earn his own rank and his own reputation without relying on anyone else, and he found he had little patience for a man who hadn't bothered to do the same.

Especially considering it was Geoffries. John didn't like him any more now than he had when they were children, and was only grateful they hadn't had to spend more time together, that the camp had been large enough to avoid him.

But, still … watching the tight way the man held his shoulders as he sat in his seat, waiting for the others to deplane made John feel guilty. Maybe Geoffries couldn't help it? Maybe he had no idea how his intonation and posture would be interpreted by ordinary soldiers. John still thought he was a prat, but he was still a prat willing to do his bit for Queen and Country.

So, as his mates bustled and joked their way to their feet behind him, John sighed and dropped his duffel into the just-vacated seat next to him and waved them on. "I'll wait for the crush," he told them with a smile (patience, patience, he chanted at himself). It wasn't their fault he was feeling edgy. There was something about being back in England, he supposed, that pulled at his ancestral strings and made him feel a certain nostalgic sympathy for the toff-nosed prat sitting two rows front.

He watched as the aeroplane emptied and, finally, Geoffries heaved himself to his feet, straightening his shoulders in relief, looking for all the world like a schoolboy who had avoided the bullies for the day. It didn't make John like him any more, but he nodded to himself. "All right there, Geoffries?" he asked, making the other man jump.

"Watson? I didn't know…"

"I didn't want to deal with the crush getting through the door, so I hung back," John told him. "It's my first time back in a while. You?"

Geoffries nodded stiffly. Their rank matched now, but he still seemed to consider John's company beneath him. Fine, then. Conscience appeased, John nodded back and wished him a good leave and then strode forward. And the man wondered why he didn't have any friends? Had nobody ever taught the man _anything_ about dealing with people? You'd think he would have picked up something with all the cohabitation of the army, but no … apparently not.

He got stuck on a slow line in customs, and by the time he was through, he could see Geoffries up ahead of him. No doubt he had a limousine waiting for him and would be relieved to slip into his bespoke suits for however long his leave was.

Geoffries had paused now, as if he recognized someone and … yes … was reaching forward to shake the hand of … John's father. Crap. How had he found out this was John's flight? He could see the two of them talking, but his father's eyes were searching back through the crowd—searching for him.

It would be wrong to slink away in the other direction, John reminded himself, and lifting his chin, he stroke forward.

"John! You're looking well, son."

"Father," John said, trying not to notice Geoffries' jaw dropping. "I didn't expect to see you. I see you met Captain Geoffries?"

"Indeed," John's father beamed at the two of them. "I was just talking to your father the other day, Alan. I had no idea you and John knew each other."

"I … that is …"

John tried not to smirk at the other man's trouble connecting words. "We're in completely different departments, Father. It's not like we have a chance to socialize. Geoffries is in administration—keeps the army moving while my team keeps it on its feet."

Geoffries was staring now, finally appearing to make the connection. John had to give him credit. He did have manners, and he regained his composure fairly quickly. "You'd be surprised at how long it took me to recognize your son, Mr. Brandon. His going by Watson threw me off."

John grinned at him, actually impressed—when had the prat grown a sense of humour?—as his father said, "He changed his name when he left for school. I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted."

Now Geoffries was staring again. "Why would you do that, Watson?"

"I wanted to see if I could make it on my own, is all," John said, trying to think of a tactful way to explain himself without outright insulting the man in front of him who took the easier (?) path. "It's made some things harder, but some easier."

Jonathan smiled at them as he looked around the terminal building. "Do you have a ride, Alan?"

Geoffries nodded. "Thank you, sir. I do. Please don't let me keep you. Have a good visit, Watson."

"You too, Geoffries," John said, feeling uncomfortable again. "See you back there?"

"No, after my leave I'm being stationed somewhere else."

"Ah," John said, then reached out to shake his hand. "Good luck."

"You, too," Geoffries said, a gleam of respect and … regret? … in his eyes, and then he turned and said, "Nice seeing you again, Mr Brandon."

A few more pleasantries, and he was gone.

#

**Years Later, But Far Too Soon**

It was like swimming through dark sludge, but John slowly rose to the surface. He winced, recognizing the familiar beeps of machines, the smell of disinfectant in his nose. Had he fallen asleep on his shift again?

He wondered at the heavy weight on his left shoulder as he tried to remember. Why was it so hard to wake up? He didn't remember the hospital being so busy that he should be this exhausted. In fact, he didn't remember being at the hospital at all. The last thing he remembered…. He frowned, trying to fit the noise and chaos in his memory with his napping on duty. And why the bloody hell was his shoulder so sore?

"John?"

John forced his eyes open with a gasp, blinking blearily at the man sitting next to his bed.

"John? Don't try to get up, son," His father said, running his hand over John's.

"Father?" He looked around the ward and saw that it was, in fact, the familiar hospital he'd been working in. But why would his father be in Afghanistan? Just because he'd overslept?

"Yes, John. It's all right. You're going to be fine. Do you remember what happened?" He reached over for the cup of water next to John's bed and held the straw for him to sip.

And … suddenly he did. In full-color, surround-sound memory. "I got shot," he said, breathless as the scene replayed behind his eyes. Oh God, his father must have been terrified when he heard. "I'm sorry."

"What? For what?"

"Didn't mean to worry you," John said, appalled that his father had come all this way, picturing how much red tape there must have been to get permission.

"You've been worrying me for over thirty years now, John. That's nothing new," his father told him just as Murray and Doctor Phillips came bustling over.

"Dr Watson, you're awake. That's excellent. What do you remember?"

"A firefight where there shouldn't have been one," John said, trying to piece together the images in his head. "Jackson was calling me, and I was working on Singh … then … I don't know."

Murray caught his eye, all sympathy. "You were shot from behind while you worked—and no, Singh didn't make it, I'm sorry. There was nothing you could have done, though, even if you hadn't been wounded. The shot went straight through his heart, unlike yours. We managed to get you back here and …."

John nodded. "Prognosis?"

"Too early to tell," Phillips said. "You lost a lot of blood—the bullet came damned close to the artery—but while we got that stopped, you threw a fever when it got infected. You should regain most of your mobility, but it's too early to tell how much."

John just stared. Less than full mobility, in his dominant hand? There went his entire career, he thought. He licked his lips, mouth cottony dry again. "Right. Murray?"

"Yeah, Watson?"

"Thanks for getting me out."

Murray nodded briefly, then his eyes slid past John, to his father, and then he was gone. Another nurse came over and began to poke and prod and John just … drifted, numb through more than just the narcotics. He could see the professional sympathy in his fellow medical staff, and knew his father was watching everything, but somehow, right then, none of it mattered. As soon as the nurse had made the last note on his chart, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

#


	2. Chapter 2

"…One of my best friends. You should be proud of him."

"I always have been. I'm very grateful to you for saving his life."

"He would have done the same for me. I've lost count of the number of lives he's saved by now, but that's what we do, isn't it?"

John blinked hazily, barely noticing the conversation going on at the foot of his bed until he realized Murray was talking with his father. Damn. He closed his eyes again. As if it weren't bad enough that his father had actually flown out here—and gotten clearance to do so—now everybody would know about his background and start treating him differently. Damn, damn.

He was so busy feeling sorry for himself, he missed part of the conversation, but Murray's voice came through loud and clear. "Honestly, I'm not surprised. He's one of the best men I know. He almost defines the word 'noble,' so I suppose it's not surprising that his blood is, too."

"Just don't spread it around, Murray. Nobody would believe you, anyway," John said, croaking the words with his dry throat. Both men turned quickly and hurried back to the bed, offering him water, asking how he felt. "Breathing, which is what matters, right?"

"It doesn't hurt, mate," Murray told him with a grin, but John's attention was caught by the look on his father's face—relief, yes, concern, but also pride, as if stupidly getting shot had been the best thing John had ever done.

"Speak for yourself," John said, realizing how sore his lungs felt. "Father? Are you okay?"

Jonathan's brow creased as he lifted his eyebrows. "Me? You're the one in a hospital bed, John."

"Well, yes, but … you look terrible. When's the last time you slept?"

If he hadn't known how much it would hurt, John would have laughed at the expression on his father's face, but was grateful when Murray spoke up. "That's the Watson I know—worrying about everyone else instead of himself—because knowing when to duck is so over-rated, right, Watson?"

"I was just doing my job, Murray. Now, make yourself useful and make sure my Father goes somewhere to get something to eat, maybe some sleep?"

"No, John, I came here to see you…" his father protested.

"And you're seeing me. I'm awake, I'm going to be fine, but you look like you haven't slept in days—and I don't even want to know what you had to do to get here. Go take care of yourself. I'll be here when you get back."

He nodded at Murray, who stepped forward and said, "If you'll follow me, sir?" and then led John's father away as John breathed a sigh of relief.

Not that he wasn't glad to see his father. He was actually surprised at how glad he was to see him. It had been years since they had lived together, but there was still something about his father that made him feel safe and loved.

No, what worried him was … well, obviously his 'cover' was blown. With the hundreds, thousands of casualties that had gone through this hospital since he got here, only a very few had gotten personal visits. Usually that was forbidden until the wounded were shipped back home. It took very special kind of pull to manage a trip to a hospital in a war zone—especially for a non-combatant. John still couldn't believe his father had managed it, but since he had … well, it would be pretty obvious to everyone that his family wasn't as middle-class as he'd always professed.

Fine, then. He would heal up and deal with the fall-out when he got back. With a shoulder wound, it would be weeks at least before he could return to duty, all dependent on physical therapy. He would probably be sent home for recuperation, he thought with a sigh, remembering that he had let the lease on his flat run out after his last deployment. All his things were in storage, but it was fine, all fine. He would think of something, and in the meantime the gossip would die down.

"You all right there, Watson?" Murray was back.

John nodded, and tried not to wince at the way it pulled at his shoulder. "It's all relative."

"Speaking of relatives…?"

He sighed. "Yes, he's my father. No, I have no idea how he wrangled permission to come here."

Murray came and sat in the folding chair next to his bed. "He was worried," was all he said, but his face showed his curiosity. After a moment, he offered, "I noticed your names were different."

Closing his eyes briefly, John nodded. "After I left home, I started using my Mum's name. It made things easier."

"Easier?"

"How much did he tell you?"

Murray's face creased in concern. "Nothing, John, he was just worried about you. Frankly, we all were—it was touch and go for a couple days. I was just surprised he managed to come visit. Most parents can't manage that."

Right, thought John. Point of no return, and Murray is one of my best friends… "Most parents aren't the sons of Earls, either. The family doesn't join the military very often, but my grandfather has connections when he needs them."

"Your grandfather … is an Earl?" Murray's voice was flat, shocked.

"Yeah. David Brandon, Earl of Undershaw. My father's the younger son." John tried to heave a deep, cleansing breath but it jarred his shoulder too much. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to keep that to yourself?"

"But … why? Why would you lie?"

"I never lied," John said, pain both emotional and physical making his voice sharp. "I used my mother's name to avoid extra attention—both good and bad, Bill. Remember how Geoffries was treated? I mean, he's a prat, but he was judged before he even had a chance. I wanted to make my own way, prove that I could do it on my own without relying on my family name. I've been supporting myself since I was 18. I can't help that my grandfather is an Earl … though you'd like him, if you met him, you know. Unlike Geoffries, he's a pretty remarkable person."

Murray was watching him with concern. "I'm sure he is, John. But you still lied."

"No, I didn't. I just didn't talk about my family. There's a difference." John gave a little laugh. "If it makes you feel better, most of my family has no idea I've done any of this. They know some of the doctor and army bits, but not that I changed my name, or relied on my own brain rather than my family's influence."

"Which explains why you're still just a Captain," Murray said, teasing, but it made John feel better.

"True. And it doesn't look like that'll be changing any time soon—not for the better, anyway. Christ, my _shoulder_, Bill. I'm a surgeon, for God's sake."

His friend nodded, sympathy plain on his face. "I know, mate, but you might be lucky. You won't know until you get through the therapy. On the plus side, I bet your Dad will spring for some top-notch doctors so you're not relying on us army hacks to save your entire career for you."

John gave a laugh. "Army hacks like me?"

"Well, we can't all be like you, John," Murray said as, with a glance at the clock, he stood up. "Don't worry, mate. I'll keep your dark secret, though I should tell you that the grapevine is mighty curious about your Dad."

John smiled, already feeling himself drifting back to sleep. "Start a few rumours for me? MI6? Professonal thief? Media mogul making a documentary? Highly successful tailor? Time traveller? By the time the truth comes out, nobody will believe it."

He felt a warm hand pat his and Murray's "Sure thing, John," followed him into sleep.

#

"So, what do your doctors say, John?" his grandfather wanted to know.

John lifted the china cup to his lips, cursing at the tremor causing ripples in the brew. "It's early to say for sure, but it looks like at least most of my mobility will come back."

"Most?"

"Mm," was all John said, but there was a world of worry there. A month after returning home, and he still had a tremor—not to mention a limp he had no idea how he'd gotten. There was no physiological reason for it, and even psychologically … He had been working on Singh's chest wound when he'd been shot, not his leg. Why had his subconscious made his leg a weak point? How was he supposed to take care of himself with a bad shoulder and a bum leg?

He had acceded to his father's demands that he come home for his rehabilitation. After all, John was stubborn, not stupid. He was well aware that he needed help for the immediate future. For those first couple weeks, he had been content to lounge around and let his father's staff wait on him. It wasn't like he was used to cooking his own meals anyway, and his father's chef produced far superior meals to the army food (if you could call it food) he'd been eating for the last fifteen years.

No, he'd been content to laze around being pampered for a couple weeks as if he were on holiday—though the pampering had stopped at the physical therapy office. The specialists his father had found put him through a gruelling course of rehab that had done wonders for his overall shoulder mobility, but … there was still this damn tremor he just couldn't shake.

He smiled bitterly at the pun, but even that bit of humour dropped away as the china cup rattled in its saucer. Yet another reason to appreciate mugs, he thought, as he carefully put the fragile cup on the table.

He looked up to find both his father and grandfather watching him carefully. "What will you do if you can't go back to the army?"

"I have no idea, but I'm hoping it won't come to that," John said, but as he took in his grandfather's expression, his face froze. Oh God, no. "Why?"

Silently, calmly, his father passed over an official-looking letter, postmarked the day before. "This arrived this morning, and your father was concerned."

The last thing in the world John wanted to do was to open that letter, but his hand reached for it automatically, even as he felt the blood draining from his face. "Do you know what this says?"

"I didn't open it, son."

"That's not what I asked," John said, his voice sharper than he intended.

They let it slide, though, and just watched him. Then, a calm sympathy on his face, his grandfather said, "I may have gotten a call yesterday from a friend," he said finally.

John let his hand fall in his lap, clenching the envelope. "No," was all he said, but his head was screaming, _No, no, this wasn't possible. It's all I've worked for, all I've wanted. No, please_.

"Leg aside, apparently they're concerned about a surgeon with a tremor, John. I am so sorry."

John stared down at his hands. He had relied on them his entire life and now, they were letting him down. He had spent the last twenty years concentrated on his career and now, just like that, it was gone—blasted away as thoroughly as if that bullet had found his heart.

It might as well have. For all intents and purposes, it _had_.

After a few minutes, he took a deep breath and then tucked the unopened envelope in his pocket and reached for his teacup, leaving the saucer where it was. "Right. Enough about my health. How are you doing? Your arthritis still bothering you?"

#

Dismal. There was no other word for it, but did it really matter? For now, this was all he could afford. He would think of something later, when he figured out what to do with his life.

"Are you sure about this, John?"

His father stood uncertainly in the doorway, immaculate in his suit, face creased with concern.

John nodded. "Sure enough. I've been making my own way this long, I can't sit back and be pampered for the rest of my life."

"It doesn't seem to have hurt your grandfather any. The Brandon family has thrived for years on being pampered."

John dredged up a smile. "True, but you forget—I'm a Watson these days. I appreciate having you there … I can't tell you how helpful it's been these last few months … but I'm a big boy now, Father. It's time for me to get back to my own life." He looked around the dreary room. "Or what's left of it, anyway."

Jonathan nodded. "I agree. Certainly my son would never be one to sit around—believe me, I've noticed how crowded you've been feeling. But still … here? You could do so much better."

"And I will, I'm sure. This is just temporary," John told him, trying to sound as if he believed it. All he really knew was that he had to get out of his father's house. He was used to being surrounded by comrades-at-arms, not servants, and after terrifying that poor maid the other day with his nightmare…

"You just …" His father looked around the colourless room again, eyes despairing. "You have that trust money, don't forget. I know you don't want to rely on it, but just for now, while you're getting back on your feet? Wouldn't it help?"

"It's there if I need it, I know. I just..." John stopped. He didn't even know how to finish that sentence. "I _need_ to do this on my own."

Understanding shone in his father's eyes as he nodded. "Do you remember, when I visited you in university? We had almost this same conversation."

John smiled, though it had a wistful edge. "I do. I was starting fresh then, too. It just seemed … easier."

His father reached over and pulled him into a quick hug. "Everything's easier when you're younger. If we knew ahead of time what the world was going to throw at us, nobody would do anything. The difference here is that, even so, you're starting again and not letting anybody stop you. Not even me. It's certainly more than can be said of your sister."

"Well, that's Harry for you. She's always been happy to take the easy path and hates to be reminded of her mistakes."

His father nodded. "Not that she ever admits making any, though splitting with Clara hit her hard," he said. Father and son looked at each other for a long moment, and then Jonathan gave another, brisk nod and turned toward the door. As he opened it, he paused. "I'm proud of you, you know. I may not always understand, but I am always proud."

"I know," John told him, feeling his eyes prickle. "I am, too."

#

It was a month later that John bumped into an old friend at the park.

"Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike grinned. "You're the second person to say that to me today."

#


	3. Chapter 3

"You're looking good, John."

John shrugged off his coat and draped it over the chair as he sat down. "Thanks. I'm feeling good, too."

"No cane?"

He shook his head and grinned at his father's tone of surprise as he reached for the menu. "Not since I moved to Baker Street."

"That's wonderful, but … Baker Street? That must be expensive," his father said. "You said it's a flatshare?"

"Yes, but that's fine. My flatmate keeps things interesting," he said, covering a yawn. "Excuse me. I haven't gotten much sleep the last few nights, but I didn't want to cancel again or you'd think I was avoiding you."

His father peered at him over his menu. "Date?"

"No. Well, not exactly. I was chasing after Sherlock … he's a Consulting Detective, did I say? We were working on a case involving—I know this sounds crazy—Chinese acrobats, a smuggling ring, and a jade hair pin worth six million pounds."

John studiously looked at his menu, trying not to smile at his father's shocked expression. "I saw that in the paper. You were involved with that?"

He absently touched the sore spot behind his ear as he made a non-committal sound. "Mm. What's good here? Brunch was really an excellent idea. It feels like I haven't eaten anything decent for ages."

"John!"

He looked up and grinned. "Yes, Father?"

John watched his father shut his mouth on whatever he was going to say as he stared. "You really are better, aren't you? You look like _yourself_again."

He nodded. "I'm managing. I mean, I've got a bit of a headache, but it doesn't matter. My limp's gone—Sherlock got rid of that for me—and the tremor isn't that much of a problem unless I'm bored. Though please don't ask me why it goes away when I'm under stress, because I've no idea. I'm doing some locum work as a doctor which, while it may not be surgery, is at least something. And meanwhile, I'm helping Sherlock. His cases are fascinating."

His phone chimed with a text, but he ignored it. Instead he just calmly read the menu while his father gave him one of those analytical, measuring looks that somehow didn't seem nearly as intimidating as when he was a boy. After the army and the two Holmes brothers, suffering his father's stare was cake.

After a time, his father nodded and went back to his menu. Neither of them said anything else until after they'd ordered. John was sipping his tea when his phone notified him that he'd received yet another message, making three since they'd sat down. Reluctantly, he dragged the phone from his pocket to check. "I just need to make sure he's not bleeding on the floor," he said as he glanced at a plea for milk, and then switched the phone to vibrate and laid it on the table.

His father watched, bemused, but all he said was, "Isn't that Harry's phone?"

"What? Oh, yeah. She didn't want to be reminded, now that her marriage is broken up, so she gave it to me." John saw the appalled look on his father's face. "Really, it's fine. It's practically new and works perfectly well. It's not like I needed a new one."

Jonathan just shook his head, a fond smile on his face. "I'll never understand you, John. Where on earth did you get his strain of thriftiness? It's very un-Brandon-like."

"Well, you know I hate being like everybody else."

"Nonsense. You work hard at it," his father told him.

"No." John shook his head. "I work at _looking_ like everyone else. Not the same thing at all—which is good. If I were like everyone else, I'd never manage to room with Sherlock Holmes. Do you know what he did the other day? I came home and found a _head_ in the fridge for one of his experiments."

"A head?" Jonathan sounded absolutely appalled.

"Yes, the real thing. And of course he didn't bother to warn me … obviously we need to talk about boundaries, but they're not really his thing. I don't think he or his brother are very used to listening to other people, but it's fine. It's a work in progress, and in the meantime, I'm not bored."

John noted the unhappy look on his father's face and gave him a smile. "Seriously, I'm doing better than I have in months. Don't worry."

His phone buzzed again, and he just grinned. "Did I mention he's not the most patient person?"

His father took a sip of his tea and just watched him. "You don't mind that? You've never taken orders well, John—just one of the many reasons I was always surprised at your choice of career."

John thought about it a moment. Since meeting Sherlock, his own life had been at risk several times, they'd both been attacked, they'd chased criminals, solved puzzles, saved lives. What was a lingering concussion and a biohazard of a refrigerator next to all of that? "It was never about taking orders. It was about saving lives, making a difference—and I feel like I'm doing that again, with Sherlock," he finally said. "Despite the frustrations … but you know me. I like a challenge. If things were too easy, I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

He shifted the conversation to Harry's most recent bout with alcohol after that, and just hoped his father didn't take it in his head to come visiting. The man had enough to worry about without facing Sherlock.

#

"Sherlock? I'm home," John called days later, as he lugged up three plastic bags of food he sincerely hoped he'd get to eat this time, rather than seeing it all turned into experiment-fodder.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, not lifting his head from his microscope. "You got a package."

"I did?" He followed Sherlock's vague wave and looked toward the desk, to see a neatly wrapped box next to his laptop.

He absently pulled off his coat before walking over. Who would be sending him something? Except for the bank and the people in charge of his army pension (and Mycroft and the police, he supposed), who knew he was even here? Nothing ever came for him but bills.

He cut the tape on the paper (and who shipped boxes wrapped in brown paper these days?) and then stopped, unexpectedly touched. Inside was a brand-new, state-of-the-art mobile phone, along with a card.

With quivering fingers that had nothing to do with his intermittent tremor, he opened the card.

"_You may not need it, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve it. You can pay the monthly bills for yourself, son, but enjoy the phone. –Father_"

He almost jumped at Sherlock's voice. "What did you have to do for Mycroft to get that?"

John just shook his head. "You know, it's not _always_ your brother, Sherlock. This is from my father."

"Really?" He could almost hear Sherlock's attention shifting to him. "I thought your parents were dead."

"No, just Mum. She died when I was 18. My father, though, is still with us. He just doesn't seem to approve of my using my sister's old phone." He turned it over in his hands—the latest model iPhone with more bells and whistles than he really wanted in a phone—he couldn't hope to master them all—but he was touched. He turned it on and was relieved it was already set to his current number. That was something, at least.

He could practically feel Sherlock's attention, like lasers through his back. "It's an expensive gift from a man who couldn't bother providing accommodation to his wounded son," Sherlock said. "Feeling guilty, is he?"

John turned, nothing that Sherlock's gaze was every bit as intense and he'd expected. "No, more like appalled at my life choices. And I never said he didn't—where do you think I lived during my convalescence?"

Sherlock frowned. "But you … no, you never actually said your family wouldn't help, did you? But you never corrected my deduction on that score, either. Why would you let me assume they were uninterested in helping?"

"I don't remember your mentioning a brother with a penchant for kidnapping, either," John reminded him. "I don't talk about my father much, but I never said he didn't care."

He started to punch at the icons on his new phone and felt his brow crease with frustration. He was never going to figure this out, he thought as he heard a chuckle. "He might care, but he obviously doesn't know you well, or he'd have gotten you a simpler model," Sherlock told him, a hint of fondness in his voice. "Still, welcome to the 21st century, Dr Watson."

John was busy trying to find the Contacts page and just muttered, "Thanks a bunch, Sherlock. I'll just let you put the shopping away, shall I?"

#

Mycroft had barely left when John's phone rang. Sherlock watched as he glanced at the screen and cursed under his breath. John accepted the call and immediately said, "I'm fine, Father. I wasn't even here when it happened."

Ah, thought Sherlock, edging into quieter music on his violin as he listened. It was nice to know _someone_ in John's family cared enough to check on him. Annoying though Mycroft was, he would never have dragged himself across the city just to drop off a minor little case about stolen missile plans. Sherlock was well aware he had come to check up on him because of the explosion and, again—_annoying_—but he knew that somewhere, deep inside Mycroft's manipulative, judgemental, overprotective, over-stepping self, he did actually care if Sherlock lived or died.

Harry had never shown such an inclination on John's behalf, and that was a mystery to Sherlock because even he knew that John was fundamentally a more likable person than himself. He didn't understand how his sister could be so cavalier about his well-being. It's not like she ever called him on the phone she'd given him, not unless she was drunk.

"It was right across the street, actually," John was saying, "But it's okay. I was at Sarah's last night and only heard about it this morning. I just got back. Sherlock's fine and, other than some broken windows, I think we're fine. It's all fine, Father."

Sherlock wielded his bow thoughtfully as he watched the flicker of panic cross John's face as he turned around to scan the flat. "What? No, really, you don't need to come… The street's totally cordoned off, and there's broken glass … you'll ruin your shoes…"

But it was clearly already too late. John lowered his phone and stared at Sherlock. "Right. My father is coming to visit because apparently he doesn't believe me when I say we're all right. Can I … just … would you, please…"

"John, please," Sherlock said smoothly. "I do have some manners. I'll do my best to restrain myself from insulting your father. Frankly, I confess I'm quite curious."

"Oh, Christ," John groaned, looking even more worried than he had a moment ago It really was curious, Sherlock thought. Almost as if he had something to hide. Suddenly, Sherlock was quite looking forward to this.

Just then, though, Sherlock's phone rang—Lestrade, calling with something intriguing about the explosion across the street. He reached for his coat, and asked John if he was coming—he might appreciate an excuse to avoid his father. (Sherlock was certainly glad to take any and all that would keep him apart from Mycroft.)

"I'd love to, Sherlock," John said, looking sincerely regretful, "But if my father's on his way over… I really can't. He sounded too worried, especially since it was an explosion. You know, after Afghanistan … Call me if you need me?"

Sherlock fought a sense of disappointment, but couldn't deny the logic. If, in fact, John's father was concerned for his son, it was reasonable that he would want to reassure himself as to his well-being. He looked at his flatmate for a moment, trying to determine whether John actually wanted to see his father, or if he just felt obliged, but John's eyes were clear and unshadowed by anything other than concern for his father's concern. This circle of worry made no sense to Sherlock, but he'd never understood sentiment.

Still, it made him feel better for John's sake—that someone in his family did care.

So he nodded. "I'll be lost without my blogger, but I'll fill you in when I get back. Mycroft sent cleaners last night, so there shouldn't be any broken glass, but I still wouldn't take my shoes off, if I were you. There's milk, if you want to offer your father tea."

"Right," John said absently as he looked around the room. "You weren't hurt, though? Mrs Hudson?"

"Luckily I avoided the worst of the glass until I got my shoes on," Sherlock said, "And Mrs Hudson was in her kitchen, never in any danger."

"Thank God," John said. "You'd better go, though. Lestrade, Scotland Yard, remember?"

Reminded, Sherlock nodded and turned to leave, smiling when John called after him, "Call me if you need me."

He pondered what he'd seen as the cab neared Scotland Yard. John had had the demeanour of sons everywhere, of "_Dad, I can handle this on my own_," but it had been tempered by affection, and the realization that his father would not be happy without actually seeing him. That, of course, was John all over. He frequently put other people's needs ahead of his own. (Sherlock couldn't understand that, but found it most convenient at times.) But still, John's reaction had been nothing like Sherlock's would have been in the same situation. He had seemed … fond.

There was something he was hiding, though, and Sherlock was determined to find out what it was, but not just now. Right now, Lestrade had another mystery for him.

#

John was just rummaging for tea things when the doorbell rang. That would be his father, he thought, and jogged down the stairs, only to meet Mrs Hudson in the hall. "I've got it, Mrs Hudson. That will be my father."

"Oh, really?" she said. "Checking after the gas explosion? It gave me quite a turn."

John turned to her, eyes searching. "You're all right, though? No dizziness or nausea? Any ringing in your ears? Sherlock said you were in the back when it happened?"

"Yes, dear, I'm fine," she reassured him with a smile and then gestured toward the door. "But don't you think you should let your father in?"

"Oh, Christ," said John, and practically lunged for the door. "Father, I'm sorry. Come in. This is my landlady, Mrs Hudson. I only just saw her for the first time since the explosion and got distracted. Mrs Hudson, this is my father, Jonathan Brandon."

He saw Mrs Hudson's surprise at the different surnames, but he was used to that by now, and after a few minutes' chat, invited her up for tea. "Really, it's no trouble. Father is just checking up on me, and knowing how well you look after me above and beyond what any reasonable landlady would do will only set his mind to ease."

"Yes, please join us," Jonathan said. "John will tell me whatever he thinks I want to hear, but I can tell that you'll tell me the truth."

John laughed. "Oh, wonderful. This was a terrible idea. Maybe you'd like your tea to go, Mrs Hudson?" But he was leading the way up the stairs, trying not to watch his father's face too carefully as he looked around the comfortably worn room. He found he was grateful to Mycroft, though. Except for the boards on the windows and the new bullet holes in the wall (what had Sherlock been thinking?), the room looked as neat as it always did … which wasn't very, but still … it did not look like an explosion had just happened.

He left his father and Mrs Hudson talking while he started the tea. It sounded like they had hit it off, which didn't surprise him at all. Mrs Hudson was such a friendly soul, and his father had plenty of the Brandon charm. John had a flash of the two of them going out on a date together, and shuddered.

Waiting on the kettle, he stepped back into the sitting room. "As you can see, Father, we're fine—except for the windows. I wasn't even here. I wish I had been, though, I could have helped. Was anybody hurt outside, Mrs Hudson?"

"Luckily, no," she said as she slid past him toward the kitchen. "That's one blessing, anyway. Sherlock was near the windows when it happened, but was standing between them, Other than a couple of small cuts from broken glass—which, yes John, I made sure he bandaged properly—he was fine."

John just shook his head. If Sherlock had been standing at the window when it happened … It didn't bear thinking about. John had had enough experience with bombs and explosions to last a lifetime. "Sherlock's at the Yard," he told his father. "Lestrade called just after you did, or he would have been here. He seemed quite eager to meet you."

His father smiled. "From what you tell me, I can't say I'm surprised."

"He has a good heart," Mrs Hudson added, walking back in with the tea tray with a sly look at John (who had had every intention of doing that himself). "Though he does his best to hide it and would hate me for saying so. I can never forget what I owe him."

"True," John said. "Me, either. When you meet him, Father … because I know you will … just ignore the rough edges."

John could see his father relaxing a bit as he watched Mrs Hudson pouring the tea and listening to John tease her that this wasn't something landladies usually did. He had tried to tell his father that he was happy, but seeing was believing, he supposed. He watched his father's eyes as he looked around the room, filled with (mostly) Sherlock's clutter and wondered what he was thinking. His father knew he didn't have a lot of _things_, and John found the clutter oddly cosy—when it wasn't taking over the entire flat, at least.

His father was too polite to make judgements, though—or at least, to share them in front of a stranger—and it wasn't long before he stood to excuse himself and the three of them headed down the steps, assuring each other they'd enjoyed their visit.

Which, naturally, was just when Sherlock and Lestrade breezed in.

#

Sherlock was already calling for Mrs Hudson when he realized she was standing right in front of him, along with John and an older man. Of course, John's father. He had almost forgotten.

"Ah, excellent," he said. "Mrs Hudson, we need to get into 221C. Would you be good enough to get your key?"

She looked surprised, but hurried off to her flat as Sherlock turned to John. "It turns out it wasn't a gas explosion after all, John. It was a _bomb_."

"What?" Worry leapt into John's face, increasing the lines in his face.

"I know," Sherlock said, all but rubbing his hands together. "And at the middle of the explosion was a message for _me_." He whipped out a phone in a pink case. "Just like on your blog, do you see? And on it, there was a message. Five Greenwich pips, and this photo which, well, we'll wait for Mrs Hudson …."

John hesitated. "You should probably go, Father."

"What? No, I'm not leaving you here with a possible bomb, John."

"Wait, John, is this your Dad?" Lestrade asked, a pleased look on his face. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."

Sherlock had spun back around on his heel, eyes raking over the scene. Why was everybody being so dull when there was a case? He was about to say as much when he remembered his earlier promise to John. "Sherlock Holmes, John's flatmate," he said, shaking the man's (soft, well-manicured) hand. "And no, it's highly unlikely anyone would go to such lengths to send me a clue just to hide a bomb in my own basement. I'm sure John will be perfectly fine."

This was met with a slightly stunned silence and he sighed. There was a reason he didn't usually bother with social graces. A moment later, though, John said, "Right. You were leaving anyway, Father, and we've got everything under control, don't we, Lestrade?"

With only a brief conversational stumble, Lestrade spoke up, "Er, yes, we're just following up on a lead, but I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. It was nice to meet you, Mr Watson."

"There? See? We're fine, and you have things to do. I'll give you a call later," John told his father as he ushered him to the door as the others watched on, bemused. John gave them a quizzical look when he turned back from the door. "What? It's not like I want my father hanging around a potential bomb now, do I?"

Lestrade just shook his head. "No, _that_ I completely understand. It's the fact that you're not fussed for yourself that worries me."

"Yes, well, I saw my share of bombs in Afghanistan," John said. "And I'd rather keep my father as far away as possible."

Sherlock stood still, intrigued by the fact that John called him "father." That was usually reserved for more formal relationships, and the two of them seemed to get along well enough. His father had been wearing what looked like an excellent suit, as well, though covered by an overcoat. Somehow Sherlock had expected something different for his jumper-loving flatmate's father. He wondered what he did for a living, and for a moment regretted the bomber's sense of timing, no matter how glad he was of the distraction.

Then John's voice intruded on his ruminations. "And here's Mrs Hudson. Shall we go?"

Recalled to the case, Sherlock turned back to 221C. He would go over the intriguing body language between John and his father later. For now, the game was on!

#

* * *

NOTE: For the record, the original plan for this story was to tell roughly the same story as "Heritage Trust," just with that one, crucial difference of John's father being supportive and loving instead of, well, the complete opposite. When I started writing it, though, I had to start earlier in the timeline. Canon-John seems like an independent fellow who hasn't relied on anyone over the years, so removing his familial support network was surprisingly easy—all it meant was he'd had a richer childhood than we usually expect. But here? With a rich background AND a family that he keeps in contact with and that loves him? There was too much I needed to _know_ to make the new POV work, and the best way to do that is to write it out, even if only in vignettes that touch on earlier parts of his history. Rest assured, though, this WILL catch up to "Heritage Trust"—or at least, that's the plan! I'm not lingering on the events from The Great Game any more than I need to. (Though, that said, I don't know if it's going to be possible for John to stave off Sherlock's rampant curiosity for, what, 8-9 months between the Great Game and Christmas?)


	4. Chapter 4

The next few days were a blur, and by the end of it, John had seen way more bombs than he wanted. He felt he had had his fill now, thank you, and hoped karma wouldn't send any more of them his way any time soon … or ever. Especially bombs of the wearable kind.

He made a point of visiting his father shortly after the events at The Pool. (He couldn't help the capital letters, even in his own head.) He still felt guilty about ushering him out so quickly, but considering how fast affairs had gone downhill (and personal) with Moriarty, had no real regrets. That was not something he wanted his family anywhere near.

For entirely different reasons, he didn't want them near Sherlock, either. Once the game with Moriarty was over, Sherlock had started asking questions about John's childhood, his family, where he'd grown up … things that would be perfectly reasonable for any other flatmate, but this was Sherlock Holmes. John might not always know what his ulterior motives were, but he could damn well tell when he had them.

Not that he was ashamed of his family—or of Sherlock, for that matter—but John had kept his upbringing secret for so long. It had never really been an issue before. Other friends had usually picked up fairly quickly that John didn't like to talk about his family, but Sherlock? This was a man who took "I don't want to talk about it" as an invitation for him to do it himself—if John wasn't going to tell him about his family, then Sherlock would simply deduce the answers for himself. The more John tried to evade Sherlock's questions, the more the man would want to know.

The minute-long meeting between Sherlock and his father hadn't really helped, either. Sherlock had been distracted by Moriarty's game, but he had still noticed things that made him curious. (Of course, everything made Sherlock curious unless it was immediately classified as 'dull.')

Still, John normally didn't have much interaction with his family, but that had changed recently. Since his return from Afghanistan, his father had wanted to see him more often. His father wasn't intrusive or pushy (unlike Mycroft), but apparently almost losing John to a bullet—and seeing him daily during his convalescence—had revived his paternal feelings, and John could understand that. Seeing him every month or so didn't seem like a high price to pay.

It was getting it past Sherlock that was challenging. Not that John lied about visiting his father, but coming up with reasons to exclude Sherlock was becoming challenging.

He laughed to himself at the irony. Mycroft was practically desperate to spend any time with his brother, no matter how acidic and unpleasant, all while Sherlock was angling to spend time with John's family, but not because of any weird, bond-with-his-flatmate's-family kind of desire. John was well aware that Sherlock didn't think much of family bonds. No, Sherlock was _curious_, oh so very curious, about what he had seen of John's father the day the Game had started.

Frankly, John was surprised Sherlock hadn't taken this out of his hands and arranged a meeting himself (probably by stealing John's phone), but he supposed he was trying to be … patient? Discreet? Thoughtful?

Really, he had no idea. All he knew was that it was something of a miracle he made it all the way to July before the inevitable happened.

#

"Your mobile rang at least three times while you were in the shower, John," Sherlock told him absently as John wandered into the kitchen, thinking about tea.

"What? Really?" John asked, reaching for his phone. "Nobody but you ever calls me that oft… oh. _Oh_. Oh, _damn_. It's Sunday, isn't it?"

"Well done, John. Extra points if you know the date as well."

"Not funny, Sherlock. I was supposed to meet my father and Harry for dinner last night, but then you figured out the painter had been poisoned with lead in his paint and there was the chase, and then all the paperwork and … I forgot. Damn it. I'm not going to hear the end of this," he said, just as his phone rang again.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said as he answered. "There was a case with a painter whose wife had been … right, you're right. It's no excuse. I should have called. How long did you …? Oh. And Harry …? I am really, really sorry, Father. We can reschedule, any time you … what? _Now_?"

Sherlock glanced up, amused, at the frantic tone. He'd never heard John's voice go quite so high and squeaky before. "In trouble with your father, I gather?" he asked when John had ended the call.

"You could say that. I left him and Harry alone at a restaurant for _my_ birthday dinner where not only did I not show up, but she got plastered. He is not amused, and is on his way over here, right now." John took one, slightly desperate look around the sitting room and then dashed for the stairs to get dressed.

Sherlock smirked a bit as he turned his attention back to his microscope. Some people were so ridiculous about their families. At least John's called first instead of dropping by like Mycroft liked to do.

And then he cursed to himself because, as if summoned by the thought, Mycroft chose that moment to show himself up the stairs. "Couldn't stay away?"

"Not at all, I just wanted to wish John a happy birthday,"

Sherlock's forehead creased. Was that something he was supposed to be concerned with? John was over the age of five, after all (no matter how deplorable his taste in television). Did he still celebrate his birthday?

He was thinking of a biting comeback when John's voice came from the door. "Thanks, Mycroft. You're a bit early, though. My birthday's not until Tuesday."

Sherlock turned his head to agree (not that he had known when John's birthday was), but stopped. John was wearing a _suit_. A fairly decent one, too, in navy blue worsted with a lighter blue shirt underneath. A mundane choice, perhaps, but it suited him, accenting the deep blue of his eyes and providing a nice contrast for his light hair.

John's face, though, looked anything but comfortable as Sherlock and his brother stared. "My father's on his way over," he said to Mycroft as he crossed to the mirror with a tie in hand. "If he keeps to form, any restaurant he's picked is going to prefer if not require a suit. You really don't need to stare, you know. It's not like I'm wearing my uniform."

"I beg your pardon, John," Mycroft said. "It's probably best not to upset your father after standing him up last night."

A brief shadow flitted over John's face and he swallowed before saying, "Leaving him alone with Harry wasn't the best idea, especially as she apparently … indulged … last night."

Curious, Sherlock thought. John looked nervous, but the way his eyes were flicking between Mycroft and the door, it wasn't about his father … it was about _Mycroft_, though John had never seemed nervous around him before. It was almost as if he … hmm … as if he didn't want them to meet. But why? Granted, why would anyone want to talk to Mycroft, but John's father had seemed intelligent and presentable—not particularly embarrassing as parents go. There was no reason to worry about introducing him to Mycroft.

For a moment, Sherlock felt smug, remembering how John hadn't minded introducing _him_, but then he realized that John had seen his father several times since, but that they had always met elsewhere.

Maybe John was embarrassed by … _him_?

Sherlock felt a brief flash of pain at the thought. This was sadly nothing new, he told himself. Acquaintances had a long history of pretending not to know him, but … John?

No, he told himself. John had seemed harried when he took the call earlier, but he hadn't shown any signs of _Sherlock_ being the problem. He had seemed a bit resigned, perhaps, but that would have been because he was being dragged to brunch by an irate parent (wasn't it?). Obviously, the problem was Mycroft.

Yes, watching the way John kept glancing toward the door, he was anxious about his father and Mycroft meeting. The question remained, why? Mycroft might be a conceited pig with megalomaniac tendencies, but even Sherlock admitted his manners were quite good—Mycroft had always been good with inconsequential trifles. He had no reason to want to antagonize John, either, so his demeanour toward his father would no doubt be impeccable. John had no reason to believe that Mycroft would offend his father, so … was the contrary likely? Was John ashamed of his father?

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he considered, staring down the shaft of his microscope without actually seeing anything. It seemed that John had a laudable relationship with his father, and the man had seemed to have good manners himself, so … really, what was going on with John and his family?

"Sherlock?"

He blinked and turned back toward Mycroft. "I asked if you had anything special planned for John's birthday?"

Still mentally analysing John's curious reactions regarding his father, he said, "No, why would I?" and then winced as John just blinked, face carefully blank. "I mean, I didn't know that John would _want_ to do anything in particular, so no, had no specific plans in mind."

"Oh, please, Sherlock," Mycroft said with that smug tone he had mastered at the age of eleven. "You didn't even know it was his birthday."

Remembering John's earlier conversation, Sherlock said, "Of course I did. I don't rely on you to tell me everything, Mycroft."

"Boys, please. My father's going to be here any minute. Could we keep the squabbling down?" John turned back toward the room, hand on his tie. He sighed. "I suppose it's too late to do anything about the mess," he said, just as the doorbell rang.

Muttering to himself, he went down the stairs, returning a moment later with his father in tow. "I'll just get my things," he was saying. "Father, you remember Sherlock, don't you? And this is his brother, Mycroft. Mycroft, this is my father."

"Jonathan Brandon," his father said, offering a hand to shake.

Sherlock just happened to be looking at John and saw his minute wince when his father spoke his name, and then quickly looked back at his brother in time to see him blink, apparently surprised. That was odd. Mycroft's self-control was practically impossible for anyone (else) to shake, yet John's father … Curious. He wondered if it was the name; he hadn't realized John had a different surname. He had never mentioned his parents divorcing.

He turned his attention back to John who was looking decidedly nervous now. "Right. I've got my phone, and I'm starved. It was nice seeing you, Mycroft."

Sherlock watched, amused as John's father gave him a _look_. "In a rush, John? I'm going to start to think you're ashamed of me. I had hoped you'd outgrown that."

John's smile was a fascinating combination of affection and frustration. "Never that, it's just … you were the one eager for brunch, and Sherlock is neck-deep in an experiment, and of course, I know how busy Mycroft is."

"On a Sunday? Nonsense. I thought we could invite them along, since Harry can't make it. I did call her, you know, but considering her … indulgence … last night, her temper is not the best this morning. I thought it would be worse punishment for the two of us if I made her come. But your friend and his brother? That nice landlady of yours, too. The more the merrier, won't you come?"

Sherlock looked up to see a look of mild horror on John's face. For a moment, he was offended. Surely John wasn't that opposed to his company? Did he think he would behave that badly? Because he was actually intrigued by the idea of spending time observing John and his father, surely John knew he would behave. (If for no other reason than that he knew John would make him leave if he offended his father.) Then he realized—this would mean having brunch with _Mycroft_.

He met John's eyes, knowing that his own face mirrored the horror, but thankfully Mycroft diverted the pending disaster by excusing himself. "It's very kind of you, but I do have duties to attend. Thank you for the invitation, though. John, do enjoy your birthday. Sherlock—try not to ruin it for him." And with another quizzical look at John's father, he excused himself.

That was a relief, Sherlock thought, but John's tension level had barely dropped. Did he not want Sherlock to come?

He lifted one eyebrow slightly and was relieved when John gave a small (albeit resigned) nod. "Thank you, I would love to come."

#

John climbed into the car with almost a feeling of relief. He'd managed to hold off a real meeting between Sherlock and his father for months, but now not only had they met, but Mycroft had, too. With the sole exception of his grandfather's title, the metaphorical cat was out of the bag. God knew he couldn't hide anything from the full attention of the Holmes brothers, and had always known they would deduce his father's (and therefore his own) upper class background. There was nothing he could do now.

He therefore planned to enjoy his brunch.

So he ignored the inquisitive yet casual way Sherlock looked around the interior of the car, how he very politely did not mention the professional driver up front. No, John just listed as his father and Mrs Hudson made small talk about how warm the weather was, and how unusual the traffic was for a Sunday morning.

It wasn't until they were seated and had ordered that Sherlock—clearly on his best behaviour—joined the conversation, when his father mentioned John's blog. (John's was horrified—he had had no idea his father knew it existed. He immediately started racking his brain, trying to remember how much detail he had written about some of the more life-threatening cases.)

Sherlock, meanwhile, was calmly explaining that John's entries were inexact, if entertaining. This was the first time John had ever heard Sherlock refrain from denouncing his blog as poorly written trash dumbed down for the masses, and he could only assume that Sherlock was trying not to embarrass John in front of his father—a delicate attention John wouldn't have thought Sherlock capable of.

John sipped at his tea and hid a smile when his father asked if Sherlock were ever wrong.

"Not often, no," Sherlock said, "Though my data is sometimes incomplete—like when John allowed me to work under the impression that Harry was his brother, not his sister."

"Let you?" John said, sputtering. "That was all of five minutes, and only until you'd stopped talking long enough for me to get a word in edge-wise."

"No, John, you forget. I mentioned your 'brother' when we met at Barts—a full 24-hours before the cab ride to the crime scene."

John just snorted. "And then you were out the door so fast, you almost forgot to tell me your name. That hardly counts."

Sherlock just smiled. "Of course it does. Though perhaps you just don't like to talk about your family—after all, you let Lestrade believe your father's surname was Watson."

John drew in a hard breath … and there it was. He was stumbling around, trying to think of what to say when his father spoke up, "It does get confusing sometimes, doesn't it, since John uses his mother's name. He has ever since he was 18—the summer she died."

Sherlock just blinked as Mrs Hudson made sympathetic noises. John couldn't help but gaze at his father with something akin to adoration. What a perfectly misleading explanation for his name change—one that most people would accept as a slightly unorthodox tribute to a beloved, departed parent. That those two facts had nothing to do with each other was irrelevant. The juxtaposition made its own perfect logic.

Except, of course, this was Sherlock. "But that wasn't the reason, was it?" he asked, eyes narrowed as his brain chased down this latest mystery. "John had told me his mother was dead, but there was no undue emotional cues to the telling. But—the summer he was 18? So, just before he headed off to school, then? But why that name?"

John could sympathize with the flummoxed look on his father's face. He really could have told him it was a mistake, trying to mislead Sherlock, even as he applauded a truly noble effort. His only problem was being undecided as to whether he should help, here, or wait to see what his father came up with next.

Except—changing his name had been his decision, all those years ago, and one that had likely embarrassed his father enough over the years. It was hardly fair to let him handle this while under the laser-gaze of Sherlock Holmes. "Brandon was too well known a name, Sherlock, between me and my cousins. I wanted to succeed on my own. It was just easier … and Watson was always part of my name, anyway."

Sherlock's eyebrow lifted. "I can understand that. I would have loved to drop the Holmes from my name, especially after Mycroft went through his grades like a dose of salts, but, well, family tradition wouldn't let me."

John nodded, too uncomfortable to look at his father as Mrs Hudson said, "That's the thing with tradition, isn't it? Even for the best of reasons, it can be hard doing something different—like all the girls today who keep their names when they marry. I would certainly have preferred not to keep Jack's name, but … well, that was a different time. You took your husband's name when you married, and it stuck. It's just less common for men to change their own names."

"Exactly," John said, just as his father said, "And John has always been headstrong. Nothing I could say could change his mind."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me at all," Mrs Hudson said with a fond look at John. "I've noticed that about your son, Mr Brandon—he's quiet about it, but when he sets his mind on something, he won't let anything stand in his way."

"Oh, please," John said. "I can't even get Sherlock to keep body parts out of the fridge."

"Give it time, dear. I have faith in you," Mrs Hudson told him while Sherlock clearly restrained himself. Maybe inviting their not-a-housekeeper had been a good idea, after all. She often helped keep Sherlock's worst impulses under control and he did seem to be on his best behaviour. Maybe it would all be fine, thought John, just as Mrs Hudson asked, "So, what do you do, Mr Brandon?"

Oh, no.

"Please, call me Jonathan," his father said with a smile. "And I'm afraid I don't really do much of anything. There is some necessary paperwork and accounts to maintain … I do keep busy, but not with anything like an actual job."

John could see Sherlock's attention practically riveted on his father—if his gaze had been any sharper, he'd have cut the man in two.

"That's a good thing about being our age, isn't it?" Mrs Hudson said with a light laugh. "Not having a full-time job. Being landlady to these two is enough for me, these days."

"Is John causing you trouble? I thought he'd been raised better than that."

"Oh, no. John is a dear," she said, a fond smile on her face.

Oh, God. Were they _flirting_, John wondered as he tried not to squirm. And here he'd thought Sherlock was going to be the difficult one. This was like a nightmare. He didn't know which was worse—having Mrs Hudson there to distract Sherlock from his family history or watching her _flirt with his father_. This might just be the worst birthday ever. It didn't help that Sherlock was looking so damned amused by it, either.

He looked around for the waiter. Where was the food, already?

He had a sudden feeling that this was going to go very, very badly.

#

* * *

(Hint: John's right. things are about to go very, very badly.)


	5. Chapter 5

Waving goodbye, John watched the car pull away from the restaurant and tried not to think about how very well his father was getting on with his landlady. It really just did not bear thinking about.

Neither did he want to think about the consulting genius standing next to him. He couldn't complain about Sherlock's behaviour this afternoon. As he'd always expected, his friend had impeccable manners when he chose to use them and, really, John was grateful he had chosen to do so today. He hadn't spent the entire visit grilling John's father about his past, either, which showed admirable self-restraint on Sherlock's part. On the surface, everything had gone smoothly. No outbursts. No hurt feelings. No squabbles or harsh words. Just pleasant conversation and laughter and good food.

It's just that it had all been so damned uncomfortable … for John, at least.

He watched the car turn the corner and, without turning, said, "Letting them leave together was probably a mistake, wasn't it?"

As if invited, Sherlock stepped forward to stand next to him. "It depends. At least this way you didn't have to carry your presents home. The question is, are you ready for Mrs Hudson to become your new mother?"

"Oh, God, don't even say that," John said with a groan. "I think I need to wash my eyes out with bleach … or my whole brain … to get that image out. I mean, it's nice they got along and all, but … _flirting_."

"I thought it was rather sweet," Sherlock said.

John glared up at his friend. "You did not. You don't even say that sort of thing. You just enjoyed watching me squirm. Okay, fine. I'm not going to think about this. I just need to … walk. You coming?"

"Of course." Sherlock settled in alongside him as he headed down the pavement, trying not to think about … anything. Anything at all. Like what Sherlock was going to say when he turned the conversation back to John's father.

Still, it was a beautiful day for July—not too hot, so that the walk was enjoyable rather than punishing, not that London's summer could begin to compare with Afghanistan's heat. The two men walked in companionable silence for a time, but John could feel Sherlock's attention on him and finally he said, "Okay, you have questions."

"Your father isn't retired, like Mrs Hudson thought, is he?"

John hesitated. That hadn't been the question he'd expected. "Since he's never technically held a job, no."

There was silence for a time, and John could practically hear Sherlock considering and discarding questions with lightning speed. It was frustrating—John was grateful for this practically unprecedented consideration, and all, but he was anxious to get this interrogation over with. He'd never been one to pick at a bandage. He preferred to pull it off quickly, and so he said, "Spit it out, Sherlock. I appreciate you're trying to be delicate, but … go for it."

An appreciative glance from his friend, who said. "Your father is wealthy."

John nodded.

"It's not self-made wealth, either, but inherited. He's never worked because he didn't need to. He wears bespoke suits and handmade shoes. His car has a driver who has been with him for years, who knew you well enough to call you by name. You were uncomfortable in the car, but it wasn't because of the outward signs of wealth. You've been around them all your life, haven't you?"

"The first half of it, anyway, yes."

Their pace had slowed now, as Sherlock's brain concentrated on the puzzle rather than the physical act of walking. "You get along well with your father, though, so you weren't disinherited, but you yourself are not demonstrably wealthy. You … chose it?"

John gave another nod. "Just before I left for university. I said it earlier—my father's name was too well known. I wanted to make it on my own merits, not because my family money made it easier."

"You put yourself through school?"

"Worked in a sandwich shop to cover expenses," John said, agreeing.

"And then you joined the army … still under your mother's name?"

"I wanted to make a difference. I never wanted to just be a GP. And the name, well … my medical degree was under Watson, and … did you ever read _Sense and Sensibility_? No? Not surprised. It's an old novel by Jane Austen and had a character named Colonel Brandon who was played by Alan Rickman in a film back in the 90s. Lord, did I get teased about that. All the girls had crushes on him and … let's just say that helped me make my choice to join up under Mum's name."

"But…" Sherlock's voice was uncertain.

"What? Go ahead, Sherlock."

"But when you were shot … I thought you didn't have anywhere else to go?"

"Not entirely true. I stayed with Father when I first came home. I told you that, remember? I might not like being waited on, but with a bad shoulder and a cane, it was … necessary … for a while until things had mostly healed. But I've been on my own for twenty years, Sherlock. I mean, I visit with the family and all, but for day-to-day living, I've always supported myself. Convalescing at Father's was one thing, but once I was back on my feet … I needed a flatmate."

He looked up with concern at the … was that confusion? … on Sherlock's face.

"If you're blaming yourself for not noticing, don't," John said.

He saw Sherlock's lip curl, but wasn't sure which of them it was directed to. "You've been a series of surprises from the start, John, but … this? How could I have missed this?"

His legs were picking up speed, and John had to stretch to keep pace. "It's not like I deliberately tried to deceive you…"

"Of course you did," Sherlock snapped. "You've been trying to keep your father and me apart for months. I had thought you were afraid I would embarrass you, but it was the reverse, wasn't it? You didn't want your father to 'out' your little secret, the fact that you've been lying to me this whole time."

"Sherlock, you've got to understand," John said, trying to keep the pleading note from his voice. "I've lived with this my whole life. My mother sent Harry and me to the local primary school, but we never fit in the way we should. Then, the summer before I left for Uni, Mum died. The one person who had argued for not letting my class and money define me was gone, and I was about to start my adult life with the same stigma hanging over me—being laughed at for my accent, for my money, with everyone assuming that any success I had was because it was bought somehow, rather than earned. So I decided to change that. I enrolled under Mum's name—which was my name, too, by the way—and supported myself. It's not a lie. I've _never_ lied to you."

"A lie of omission, then," Sherlock said, voice scathing. "You walk around in your jumpers and worn jeans as if that's all there is to you, when it's not."

Now John was starting to feel angry. "Of course it's not, and you know that better than anyone. I'm a doctor, Sherlock, and a soldier—that kind of dichotomy didn't alert you to the fact that I'm not quite like everyone else? I wear jeans because I like them and that's what I can _afford_. You know, for someone eager to observe and deduce a puzzle, you're acting very anxious to stuff me into a pigeonhole all of a sudden. One that seems to be labelled, _Grew up rich, not to be trusted_."

"Don't be silly, John. It's not the money that makes you untrustworthy. It's the fact that you've been lying about it."

"Untrustworthy?" John couldn't believe his ears. "Because I don't rely on family money to pay for bespoke suits and a Belstaff coat? I've been supporting myself my entire adult life—you of all people should appreciate that."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Sherlock said, but John put his hand on his arm, forcing him to stop.

"That's bollocks. You know better than anyone what it's like to be different, and you hate like poison to have to turn to Mycroft for anything. You've been trying to cut ties with your family for years. You're just upset that I managed to separate myself from _my_ family obligations without alienating them or having to resort to drugs to get them to leave me alone."

At any other time, John would have been proud to have silenced Sherlock so effectively—because Sherlock looked like he'd taken a blow to the head. Of course, not being a cruel person, at any other time, John would never have said any of that¬¬—but just then, John was too furious. Sherlock was so convinced he was always right, that he knew everything, but he didn't know a damn thing about what John's childhood had been like or what demands had been made on him.

Which is why, before Sherlock could say a word to him, John said, "You know what? Maybe you'd just better leave me alone, too."

And he turned on his heel and stormed off in the other direction, leaving a slack-jawed Sherlock Holmes staring after him as he went.

#

Sherlock watched John march away and felt nothing but frustration. He was the wronged party here, wasn't he? He had been the one John had misled for months now. The man had _lied_.

Oh, not outright, perhaps, but in all the ways that mattered. Every word John had ever said to him had been a lie because the accent he had spoken with had been false. Every scrap of clothing he wore was a deception, presenting him in middle-class normality instead of in the threads that would befit a gentleman. (Because looking at John's father, there was no question the man was a gentleman in the classic sense of the word.)

No, John's alleged need for a flatmate, for money to make the rent … the necessity of his working at the surgery to make ends meet … all of it was a lie. Not like with Sherlock. He had legitimately been cut-off from his trust fund. He had truly needed a flatmate to share the rent until Mycroft could be convinced to release the money that was rightfully his. But John obviously got on well with his father and could have gotten his hands on some money whenever he needed to.

Clearly John was the one at fault, here. Even knowing Sherlock's _need_ for knowing the truth, he had deceived him by allowing him to work under the misapprehension that John was middle-class.

That wasn't to say Sherlock couldn't admire the achievement. Not many people could deceive him, much less a flatmate he saw for hours every day. He had no idea that John's camouflage skills were so good. Even the accent—he had never detected an anachronism or flaw.

No, John's chameleon skills were laudable to have fooled him for so long. He could almost admire him for that, except John hadn't deceived him as a test or a game. He had deceived him because it was all a _lie_. Everything Sherlock knew about him was based on false assumptions.

How had he gotten this image in his head, that John had grown up in a small, middle-class house? That he had been, perhaps, the first of his family to go to university, to better himself? Because none of that was true. Quite the contrary, John had had every advantage and had chosen to throw them away.

Sherlock's stride was eating up the pavement as he tried to consolidate this new knowledge with the man he had thought was his friend. Past-tense, yes, because no-one who was truly a friend would indulge in such a long-term deception. He had _thought_ John Watson was one of the most honest, most transparent people of his acquaintance, but, no … he'd been mistaken. The _persona_ of John Watson might be, but that was just a false identity hiding John Brandon, whoever that might be.

Because John Brandon? Sherlock didn't know him at all.

A small voice suggested that he did, that John was John, regardless of his surname, but he snarled at it to make it shut up. John _Brandon_ was anathema to him, a liar, a thief—a thief who had stolen John Watson away.

That annoying little voice of reason spoke up again, suggesting that maybe what Sherlock was upset about wasn't that John had lied, but that he—the Consulting Detective—hadn't noticed.

Even if that were true (because he was admitting nothing), that still didn't change the facts, he told himself. John's entire life was based on a lie, and how could he forgive that?

Because when it mattered, Sherlock did not lie. He would fib to encourage a confession from a suspect, and naturally one couldn't expect him to be forever honest to Mycroft … but to those who mattered? Mrs Hudson? John (or John-that-was)? No. Lying to them was beneath him. They might not always interpret correctly, but he laid the facts—himself—out before them for them to see what they might. His past, his drug history, even the family money which showed in every thread of his beloved Belstaff coat … it was all there to be observed, not hidden beneath shabby jumpers and old jeans.

John had lied.

He didn't know if he could ever forgive him.

#

John was marching down the street, still fuming, when the black car slid alongside him.

"You've got to be kidding," he muttered to himself as he glared at the shiny finish. As the window rolled down, he just stood there. "Now is not a good time, Mycroft."

Sherlock's brother nodded. "Nevertheless, we need to talk, John."

John just heaved a deep breath and glanced toward the front seat. He really didn't want to be man-handled into the car, not today. "I am _not_ in the mood for this right now."

"Understood," said Mycroft. "Nevertheless…"

"Fine," John said, and climbed into the car. "Well?" he asked as they pulled out into traffic.

"The Earl of Undershaw?"

John sighed. "My grandfather, yes, as I'm sure you know."

"I do now, yes, though I really must speak to my people for not having spotted this earlier."

"Careless of them," John said, pursing his lips. "I'm surprised, actually. I wouldn't have thought it would be that hard to spot. It's not like it was a deep dark secret, or anything."

Mycroft played with the handle of his umbrella. "And yet you went to such lengths…"

"I wouldn't go that far. I dropped the Brandon from my name and started supporting myself. It's not like I bought a stolen ID and cut all ties with my family. I talk to my father regularly, and he's always known my reasons and been supportive. What you're really saying is that I didn't tell _you_. I swear, you and Sherlock are just the same sometimes."

"He took the news badly, then?"

"Don't you know?" John was surprised. He would have thought Mycroft would have seen the fight.

"I knew the two of you had split up on your way home, but not … er … _how_ badly?"

John gave a short laugh. "Very. Apparently not only have I deliberately deceived him, but my entire existence is a lie, which makes me untrustworthy. _Untrustworthy_. Because even though I support myself and haven't relied on my father for money since I was 18, the fact that I_could_ have makes this so duplicitous and changes everything."

Mycroft's voice was tentative as he asked, "And when you say it changes everything…?"

"It's hard to say. At this precise moment in time, it means that we just had a fight and said some nasty things and are both angry. How long that will last?" He shrugged. "I don't take kindly to being told I'm untrustworthy—especially not when that's solely based on the fact that I didn't tell my flatmate—the man who is continually bragging about his observational skills—that I grew up in a large house with money."

They rode in silence for a few moments as Mycroft considered what John had just told him and John continued to try to calm his heartbeat, trying not to think of what he and Sherlock had shouted at each other.

"What did you say to him?" Mycroft finally asked.

"We both said things we shouldn't," John said with a sigh as he rubbed his hand over his face. "I might have told him not to blame me because I didn't have to resort to drugs to get away from _my_ family. Which, yes," he added as Mycroft drew in a hard breath, "I know was over the line, but he had just told me my entire _life_ was a lie, when I don't see him broadcasting the Holmes family background to all and sundry."

"No," Mycroft said, stretching out the syllable, "But … John. The _drugs_?"

"I know. I wish I hadn't said it, but he's got to realize not everything's about him."

"I thought you knew my brother better than that, John. To him, everything _is_ about him—it always has been."

Silence reigned for several more minutes, and then Mycroft said, "He'll probably forgive you if you tell him you were waiting to see how long it would take him to figure this out—that it was a challenge."

"I'm not looking for tips on managing Sherlock," John said wearily, "Especially from the one person who upsets him more than anyone else … until today, at least. I do realize that he's angry at himself for not having deduced this, and I know how sharp his tongue can be … but he went over a line too, today. There's no point in my apologizing if he doesn't realize he was wrong also."

Mycroft gave a small nod. "It's not just the fact that he missed this, you know. It's also that you…"

"…Managed to do what he didn't," John said with a sigh. "I cut ties with the family tradition, head out on my own, but did it without leaving a wake of hurt feelings behind me. I know. We both rebelled against our families, Mycroft, just … I did it tactfully."

He caught a glimpse of respect on Mycroft's face. "You did, indeed. I've never met your father before, but I believe I know your cousin, David. It's only now that I realize who he's meant when he's spoken of his cousin John—one whom he respects for being an army doctor, though he never mentioned the name change."

"He probably didn't know," John said. "When I told my father I wanted to do this, we agreed that it would be something we wouldn't deliberately hide, but that we wouldn't advertise. Most of the family knows I'm a doctor and in the army, but not necessarily that I go by Watson and haven't touched my trust fund in twenty years."

"Fascinating," Mycroft said. "I begin to see why Sherlock is so intrigued by you, Captain John Hamish Watson Brandon, MD. You are full of what appear to be contradictions and yet are in fact remarkably consistent and strong in your moral stance."

John just rubbed at his forehead. "Yes, well, I doubt he would agree with you just now. And for the record he doesn't know about my grandfather being an Earl yet."

"If you'll take my advice, John, you won't wait long before telling him," Mycroft said as the car pulled up at Baker Street. "You just need to remind him that you are the same man you've always been—and that your apparent contradictions are all part of what drew him to you in the first place."

John pushed open the door and then turned back. "It remains to be seen whether we'll be talking about anything at all, but yes, I know."

"My brother trusts very few people in the world, John. I would hate for him to decide to cross you off that list."

John nodded a bit to acknowledge that—he'd never heard Mycroft sound so urgently sincere—but all he said was, "Thanks for the ride."

He paused on the pavement, watching the car drive away and trying to reconcile the minute differences between this "kidnapping" and his others by Mycroft. Some indefinable dynamic had shifted, as if Mycroft knowing of John's upbringing and close connection to one of the realm's Earls had altered the way he spoke to one John Watson. He had still come over the Big Brother, but there had been less condescension than usual. That just underscored the reasons why he had changed his name in the first place, he thought with a sigh as he turned to the door.

And while it was one thing for Mycroft's attitude to change—and John wouldn't object to invitations rather than kidnappings, after all—John was terrified that his relationship with Sherlock would never be the same.

#

—_You shouldn't blame him. I didn't know about his family, either. MH_

—_Bugger off, Mycroft. It's none of your business. SH_

—_No, but you are, and I worry. I'm sure he just thought you would see his past for yourself. You are forever reminding us all that you don't need to be told things. MH_

—_Go away, Mycroft. I don't need you OR John Brandon telling me anything. SH_

—_You mean John Watson, don't you? MH_

—_There is no such person. Now GO AWAY._

#


	6. Chapter 6

Still smouldering, Sherlock pushed open the door to 221 and almost stumbled on the pile of packages in the hall.

He'd forgotten that Mrs Hudson had brought back John's birthday presents and only barely restrained himself from kicking at the box holding the new laptop. (See? He wasn't the only one who got expensive gifts from his family.)

He was just about to sweep past them up the stairs when Mrs Hudson called him. "Oh, Sherlock, dear. Are you alone? Could you come here a moment?"

He really wasn't in the mood for this, he thought, but with a flounce (not that he admitted it was a flounce), he turned and went down the hall to her flat. "Yes?"

She grabbed his arm and bustled him inside, shutting the door behind him. "I feel just terrible. I didn't know it was John's birthday, did you?"

His lips tightened. "Not until this morning. Apparently there are any number of things I did not know."

"His father told me in the car … and he is such a nice man. I can see where our John gets his charm from, can't you? … Anyway, he told me in the car that John doesn't like to make a fuss, that he never has. At most he'll let his father and sister take him out for a meal, but he won't let them do anything _special_, but that just seems wrong, don't you think? So what if we threw him a party? Even just a small one? Do you know who we could invite? Any of his friends?"

For a moment, Sherlock felt a malicious gleam at the thought of forcing a party on an unwilling John. He would hate it, but be forced to be polite anyway, because that's what John did. It would make him miserable, and Sherlock could envision the whole thing—the gathered friends, the shout of surprise, and then hours of John being polite through gritted teeth, forced to pretend that he was …

But, no. The vision fell away in a burst of static. John spent too much time pretending as it was. Twenty years now, was it, since he'd started pretending to be someone else? Besides, Sherlock would be stuck at the party as well. Before the night was done, he would be wishing he'd invited Moriarty just so he could blow it up and none of them would need to suffer the ordeal but that would hardly seem fair to Mrs Hudson who was just trying to do something nice because she was always doing that even though she didn't have to and it's one of the things he found nicest about her or at least not totally annoying even though sometimes she was but he secretly loved her for that anyway and … what had she asked him, again?

"I doubt he would appreciate any more surprises this week, Mrs Hudson, though it's very … kind … of you to offer."

She nodded. "I suppose you're right. It's rather short notice, isn't it, and some people consider that rude. It seems a shame to do nothing, though. He does so much for both of us."

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "Really? You think so?"

"Oh, Sherlock, really. Of course he does. He does almost all your shopping…"

"…So do you."

"And he's continually cleaning up after you…"

"…As do you."

"He follows you on cases and helps you out all the time, and he blogs about them, which has to be good publicity for you…"

"Romanticized nonsense."

"Sherlock!" She was glaring at him now. "You're just being silly. I'm just saying it would be good to do something nice for the poor man, his first birthday since he came back from Afghanistan."

Sherlock just shrugged. "If you feel you need to, go ahead. I really can't be bothered."

He started to walk away but she grabbed his elbow. "Sherlock Holmes, whatever is the matter with you?"

"Nothing at all, Mrs Hudson. I'm sure it's very nice of you to be so thoughtful, and I'm sure John will appreciate whatever you do, but leave me out of it."

She looked appalled. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

"Me?" Why did people always assume he was the one at fault?

"Yes, you. You seemed quite happy when we left the restaurant earlier. Did you two have a domestic?"

"I just don't take being lied to very well, Mrs Hudson."

"Lied to…" Her face looked completely shocked. "Who lied … _John_?"

He gave another small shrug. "Not in words, perhaps, but…"

Now she was dragging him back toward her kitchen "You come with me. You're going to sit and have a cup of tea and tell me _exactly_ what you're talking about."

#

Wearily, John climbed the stairs to 221B. What was he going to do? He admitted he'd crossed a line—he should never have thrown Sherlock's drug usage in his face, no matter the provocation. But otherwise? Why was _he_ the one at fault, here?

Okay, he hadn't told Sherlock about his family, but that wasn't the same as a lie. If Sherlock could deduce an airline pilot by his left thumb, how was it possible he had missed John's upbringing in the sound of his vowels, or the way he combed his hair, or something? Because John had seen Sherlock at work. No matter how natural his middle-class accent was after primary school and the army, surely there were some clues?

All right, so maybe he had tried to keep Sherlock from finding out—but it wasn't a _deception_, more a delaying tactic. He might not have volunteered information, but Sherlock hadn't told him everything about his past, either, and again, Sherlock bloody Holmes was supposed to be able to deduce these things. It wasn't John's fault he had never bothered.

John paused as he reached for the kettle. Had Sherlock truly not bothered? Why had he not? Was it because he found John so boring it wasn't worth his trouble? Or … was he trying to be polite and discreet (not exactly his strong point)? Maybe he hadn't analyzed John that way because he hadn't wanted to pry?

Maybe he had hoped John would volunteer the information?

In anything like a normal friendship, that would be the norm—friends shared information with each other as they grew closer. Was it possible that Sherlock had hoped John would tell him, not because he was unable to deduce it, but because he wanted that proof of friendship?

John considered this. Aside from Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, Sherlock didn't seem to have any real friends. There were people like Mike or Molly or his Homeless Network with whom he interacted amicably enough, but they weren't _friends_. Considering what Sherlock had likely been like as a child, it's possible he had regularly alienated every potential friend he had found. (Look at the way Sebastian Wilkes had talked to him.)

It was entirely possible that Sherlock had never had a real friend.

If so, it followed that he would probably have a hard time knowing what to do or not do now that he had one. (Because make no mistake about it, if there had been any question, The Pool had established once and for all that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were indeed friends.)

And if he followed this line of logic … not only might Sherlock have been politely waiting for John to tell him about his past, but the knowledge that he had kept it from him (even if it were the entirely benign habit of two decades of simply not talking about it rather than deliberate misdirection) might well make him think that John didn't consider him a friend. His feelings—the ones he kept so well hidden, so deeply buried—could be hurt.

Which, John supposed, would be his fault. He knew how poor Sherlock's social graces were. In emotional matters, he was supposed to be the enlightened one, and he had completely missed this…

The question now was, what could he do?

#

Awash with Mrs Hudson's excellent tea and even better advice, Sherlock climbed the stairs to his flat. The pile of presents had disappeared, so it seemed likely that John was there.

Perhaps Mrs Hudson had a point—John would have assumed that he would have read his history in his posture, his voice, whatever. He might not have so much been deceiving him as labouring under the assumption that Sherlock already knew.

Really, the only saving grace here was that Mycroft hadn't known, either.

Still, remembering how angry John had been when they parted on the pavement earlier, Sherlock drew a deep breath as he laid his hand on the doorknob. No matter how betrayed he (still) felt for John's lies, he hoped he wouldn't find a pile of luggage on the other side of the door. He hoped he hadn't chased him away.

Pulling his shoulders straight, ready for anything, he pushed the door open and … stopped.

No, he hadn't been ready for this.

Standing in front of him in full dress uniform, was John. Or, more precisely, Captain John Watson.

Sherlock stood, blinking as he stared at the sight in front of him. Posture stiff with military precision, John waited as Sherlock absorbed the sight.

"Reenlisting, then?" he finally asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "That was fast."

If anything, John's face softened. "No, Sherlock. I just wanted to show you … _this_ is who I am. Captain John Hamish Watson Brandon, RAMC, MBBS," he said, gesturing to the uniform.

"Yes, I know about your military history, John. That's not the issue," Sherlock said, unable to look away from John's sudden air of authority, the utter competence and dependability that he had seen a hundred times, but never quite connected to his military service.

"It is the issue, Sherlock. Because in my head, this is who I am. Or, at least, who I was before I was shot. I don't think much about my childhood, you know. I've been too damned busy putting myself through school and being a doctor. It's my profession that defines me. Not my parents. Not my accent. Not my past."

Sherlock shook his head. "That's nonsense, John. As much as I hate to admit it, all of us are shaped by our pasts."

"Of course we are," John said with a nod. "But you know better than anyone that your past doesn't have to define you. You are as much a self-made man as I am, Sherlock. You created your own profession, for God's sake, and treat everyone equally, regardless of background. It's just one of many remarkable things about you."

His stood comfortably now, hands clasped behind him, body still erect but relaxed. Sherlock considered him, considered what he was saying. "But this isn't you anymore, is it? Not since…"

"Since I got shot," John finished for him. "No, sadly it's not. In my head, though, this is still who I am—and you've always seen it. You deduced this the first time you met me, despite my cane, despite my jumper and jeans. You never had to _see_ the uniform to believe it. You have always seen past the surface, Sherlock. You do it for everyone. You've never needed to see my uniform to tell you any of this. And you certainly didn't need me to tell you."

"You're saying I should have deduced your childhood as well?" Sherlock asked, voice brittle.

"I'm saying that my childhood doesn't matter as much as who I am as an adult," John told him, eyes warm. "You never fail to amaze me with your observations, you know, but I'm not in your head, Sherlock. I don't know what you see or don't see. Maybe I shouldn't have assumed you knew, but honestly … I wasn't trying to deceive you. How could I possibly have hoped to? You're Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, the man who sees everything."

John's posture had relaxed now, and Sherlock was having trouble holding on to the remnants of his sense of betrayal. "But you lied," he said.

"No, or not deliberately," John told him. "I told you, I don't know what goes on inside your head, and…" He pulled in a deep breath, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "I'm still trying to redefine myself. I've thought of myself as an army doctor for almost twenty years, and it hasn't even been a year yet since that got taken away. I'm too busy trying to figure out who I am _now_ to think about who I was thirty years ago."

Sherlock hadn't thought of that. "But that's part of you as well, isn't it?"

"Of course it is, and I'm not saying it hasn't affected the man I am now." Looking suddenly exhausted, John sat down in his chair, though not with his usual boneless sprawl—his posture tied to the uniform he wore. "I'd imagine your childhood wasn't a picnic, either, you know. I'd bet you were bullied in school and didn't make friends easily—considering how your mouth gets you into trouble now, I can only imagine how bad it was before you learned to filter—but those things contributed to the man you are. They contributed, but they don't _define you_. Any more than my childhood defines who I am now."

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, uncertain when he had actually sat down, but he nodded. Why hadn't he thought of that? His own childhood had influenced him, yes, but it didn't define him—if it had, he'd probably be a government flunky like Mycroft, stuck in an endless round of mind-numbing meetings and reports instead of here at 221 Baker Street with Mrs Hudson and John.

"So who are you, then? John Watson? Or John Brandon?"

"It's not like dissociative personality disorder, Sherlock. I am the same person, regardless of the name … though I haven't answered to Brandon in twenty years, not really. Some of my cousins still call me that because they don't know about the Watson thing, but I'm the same person whether I'm here with you or at an awkward family gathering. That was one good thing about the army, though—it got me out of a lot of those."

Sherlock found himself smiling. "I wish I'd had as good an excuse, then."

"You get shot at often enough here," John told him, smiling back.

"True," Sherlock said, and suddenly it all felt all right again. He studied John, taking in all the details of his uniform. "You've more honours than I expected."

John tipped his head in a modest shrug. "Just being in a combat zone gets most of them."

"And being shot."

"Yes, well," John was clearly uncomfortable talking about this. "I was there to do a job. Outside the paycheque, I never expected to receive anything for it—certainly not medals. That was never the point."

He seemed to brace himself and then added, "I've never been one to attach too much importance to superficial show. Not military medals … or, say, the Brandon family crest, either."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Family crest?"

"The one for the Earl of Undershaw, yes," John said. Then after a moment, added, "That would be my grandfather."

Sherlock just blinked as he absorbed this new information. John's grandfather was an Earl? After the rest of the day's revelations it was almost unimportant … almost. "The Earl of … so, your father is…?"

"The younger son," John told him. "My uncle died a few years ago, but my cousin David is next in line. Grandfather is still going strong, though. He's 89 and healthy as a horse, God bless him."

"That's … that's not something I can deduce, you know," Sherlock said, his voice suddenly hoarse. What were the odds, truly, that John Watson would be part of his life? He had grown up with every privilege—they might almost have ended at the same school had John's mother not insisted he attend the local primary. (_Had_ he known any Brandons at school?) John had joined the army and _been shot_, yet he had survived and somehow ended up here, across from Sherlock, the embodiment of contradictions and layers and … John-ness. It was unfathomable and incredibly lucky. Any other flatmate he might have found would have been boring and two-dimensional like everyone else he knew, but instead he had found John—all because they had one shared acquaintance who miraculously heard both of them mention needing a flatmate on the same day.

And dancing in his head behind the dumbstruck daze fostered by this latest bit of news was the realization that John had not lied to him. Not on purpose, at least, and that was what mattered. He was who he was, self-made, much like Sherlock himself was.

He realized he was staring at John, finally noting the blend of concern and amusement on his face, so he said the first thing he could think of. "Mrs Hudson wants to throw you a birthday party."

"Oh, God," John said. "Please tell me you talked her out of it."

"I almost didn't," Sherlock admitted. "I knew you would hate it and I was still angry with you … but then I realized I would have to attend as well."

John laughed, and it sounded so good to hear it. "Well, thank you for that."

"She's going to cook us dinner instead," Sherlock said.

"Really?" John's face brightened. "Now that's a celebration."

"Indeed. I might actually eat," Sherlock told him, all so he could see John's expression.

"There's no need to go crazy, Sherlock. I mean, you did eat this morning."

"True, but that wasn't Mrs Hudson's cooking."

"No, though she seemed to enjoy it."

"And the company," Sherlock said, teasing.

"Oh, God, don't remind me." John sat quietly for a moment. "I am sorry, by the way."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "You are?"

"I should never have thrown the drug thing in your face before. That was over the line."

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said, but John didn't seem like he believed him. "No, really. Do I seem the type to be ashamed of my past? And you weren't entirely wrong—I did cocaine because I was bored, yes, but also desperate to get away from my parents' expectations of me—they were so determined to force me into their image of a good son, to be like Mycroft. I may not be proud of it, but it's in the past, done with."

"Okay," John said with a nod. "I still shouldn't have brought it up, but … okay."

"I shouldn't have called you untrustworthy," Sherlock said, remembering how that one word had transformed John's face into the rage that driven him to pull up Sherlock's drug history. "You are by far the most trustworthy person I know."

"Really?" John's voice was almost small.

"Nobody else would have shot that cabbie for me, John. Or tackled Moriarty while wearing a bomb vest. Or stood up for me how many times now when people call me names? My only real regret is that we never did get a chance to go to school together."

John got a distant, nostalgic look on his face. "Wouldn't that have been interesting? I would have defended you from bullies and you would have helped me with my chemistry homework—even though you would have been at least a couple years behind me."

Sherlock smiled. "All those opportunities lost. Of course, had we met at school, things would have been different."

"It's unlikely we would have started with Mycroft kidnapping me, at any rate. Or facing a serial killer," John said. "Mycroft told me he hadn't known about my family … do you think that's possible?"

When had Mycroft talked to John, Sherlock wondered, but all he said was, "He told me the same thing, so he's either being consistent or heads are going to roll in his intelligence department. It does seem like a fairly large detail to overlook."

John nodded as he pushed himself to his feet. "I'll say. Look, I'm going to get out of this uniform and make some tea. I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Don't be silly, John. Your birthday's not until Tuesday."

He laughed. "Maybe not, but I've got presents, so I'm counting from today. Tell you what, you can start installing your anti-Mycroft software on my new laptop while I change—just don't make the password anything I can't remember, yeah?"

Sherlock grinned back at him. "I thought you lived for a challenge, Captain Watson?"

John was already unbuttoning the collar of his uniform jacket. "Jesus, I'd forgotten how uncomfortable this was. And, you know I'm better at the kind of security that uses guns, not computers. That's what makes us a good team."

"True," Sherlock said, already unpacking the new laptop from its box. They were a good team, and he wouldn't forget it again.

#


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock wriggled his toes into the plush rug and grinned to himself. Mycroft thought he could intimidate him into taking one of his boring cases? Well, he'd show him. His men might have brought clothing for him, but he couldn't force him to put them on.

He only wished John were here to see it.

He had only the barest moment to consider whether John would be more likely to be offended or amused when the man himself came walking around the corner, his brow crinkled in the semblance of polite confusion that he did so well. "Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

Their eyes met, and there it was … that irresistible, contagious giggle that Sherlock could never help but match.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock? I mean, seriously, what?"

"I don't know. Visiting the Queen?"

And then Mycroft walked in and they were in giggles again, and it was glorious. It didn't matter that a part of him knew that he really _should_ be properly clothed to show at least some respect for the Queen and the years of tradition and blah, blah, blah, but if John wasn't insulted by it—John with his strong moral compass and his deep sense of duty—how wrong could Sherlock be?

John's face paled, though, when he saw Mycroft's companion, and for a moment, Sherlock was afraid he'd gone too far. Mocking his brother was one thing, but maybe mentioning the Queen here in Buckingham Palace was too much?

But no. John was staring at Mycroft's companion. "David?"

"John?" The (upper-class, well-dressed, boring) man's face lit up as he stepped forward to shake John's hand. "It's been ages, old man. What are you doing here?"

"We were just wondering the same thing ourselves," John said. "I don't know anything except that it's been a while since I was on a helicopter and this is the last place I expected to be today. I'd say I would have dressed better, but, well," he gestured toward Sherlock with a suppressed smile. "It's so seldom I get to be the better-dressed one."

The man, David, looked his way with the kind of polite expression that meant he was far too well-bred to comment, but he offered his hand anyway. "David Brandon. You must be Sherlock Holmes?"

"I must be," said Sherlock. "Obviously you already know my colleague."

"Oh, but this … I thought Mycroft had said your assistant's name was Watson?"

"Colleague," Sherlock stressed, "Also friend and flatmate."

John gave Mycroft a dirty look, but he said mildly enough, "I use Watson professionally, David. It was my mother's name, you remember?"

David blinked. "Of course, I'd forgotten. But John, aren't you in the army anymore? I remember Grandfather saying you'd been hurt, but…"

"Shot, actually," John said, his voice crisp as it always was when someone asked. "Just enough nerve damage to disqualify me from performing surgery and send me home. I've been working with Sherlock for months now. I'm surprised you hadn't heard."

"Obviously Grandfather doesn't tell me as much as I thought," David said. "Usually the family grapevine is better than that."

John smiled and gave a small shrug. "I wouldn't really know. I've been out of the loop for years."

Just then, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's elbow and, to his frustration, dragged him aside. Didn't he know how utterly fascinating this was? He didn't want to miss a nuance in this meeting between John and his cousin, but Mycroft was busy hissing "Put on your clothes," and it was distracting, infuriating. Why must he always interfere in Sherlock's life?

"Give me one reason I should," he hissed back.

It was a treat to see the effort it took for Mycroft to rein in his temper. Sherlock so seldom had this good an opportunity to mess with him. A part of him did know that this was probably not really the proper place, but that was what made it so delicious! The last thing Mycroft would want would be to embarrass himself here of all places and, well, how could Sherlock resist?

He was all ready to be as difficult as possible—up to and including walking away with or without his sheet—when Mycroft said, "You might think of John, brother dear. He might facilitate your childish behaviour, but do you really wish to embarrass him in front of his cousin?"

As much as he hated to admit it, that was actually a masterstroke on Mycroft's part. Sherlock would be willing to embarrass Mycroft anytime, anywhere, for as long as he possibly could, but John? That was another story. Oh, he might not normally trouble himself over John's blushes when out and about on a normal case—John was so unflappable most of the time, it was always entertaining seeing him squirm with embarrassment. But this?

Hmm. He looked at his friend. John had been entirely unfussed about his sheet when he arrived, and if it were just a matter of tormenting Mycroft with it, Sherlock had no doubt that John would have happily (more or less) sat back to watch the sibling rivalry in action.

Since his cousin had arrived, though … John's shoulders had gotten tense, and he was sending sidelong glances their way as he chatted with the other man. He didn't look embarrassed, but he did look uncomfortable.

Sherlock blinked, thinking. If he backed down now, would Mycroft understand he was doing so for John's sake? Probably, but wouldn't that be a tactical error, since it would only confirm Mycroft's hypothesis that he could force Sherlock to 'behave' by making John uncomfortable so that he would continue to do so in the future? Yet, Sherlock did not, in fact, want John to be uncomfortable.

More importantly, he knew (now) of John's family history. He still didn't talk of them often, but Sherlock knew his friend tried to strike a careful balance between keeping in touch and not giving away too much detail. He wasn't ashamed of his accomplishments, he had told Sherlock months ago, quite the contrary, but some of his sillier relatives did have a hard time appreciating people who dressed and spoke like John did. It didn't matter that he usually made a point of wearing a nice suit for the occasional family gathering, or that he had no doubts about his own self-worth … deep down, John knew that appearances mattered to some people. Being blindsided like this—at Buckingham Palace, while wearing his casual clothes still dirty from tramping around in the mud after a boomerang—would be hard enough for him. If you added in Sherlock's _extreme_ casual wear of the finest Egyptian cotton percale?

Somehow, he really didn't want to make John uncomfortable.

"You did this on purpose," he snarled to Mycroft.

"That's what politicians do, brother. They use whatever means they have to make things happen. All I did was facilitate a meeting between two cousins who haven't seen each other in a while. You're the one who embarrassed himself by arriving dressed like a ghost. Now, will you put your clothes on? If you do, I'll endeavour to distract David so that you don't miss any more of the fascinating reunion with John than you must … and that you wouldn't have missed at all had you shown the proper respect in the first place."

Sherlock just sneered at him as he took the pile of clothes out of his hands and stormed toward the nearest door.

#

John didn't know what Mycroft had said to Sherlock, but for once he was almost grateful that the older Holmes had carried the day. As entertaining as it was to watch the two brothers snipe at each other, there was a time and place for it, and (even though he would never say so to Sherlock) Buckingham Palace was not it. Especially not in front of David.

It was ironic, really, that he would see David again for the first time in over a year here in the palace. David had always been one of his favourite cousins, but they so seldom had anything to _talk_ about. Once they'd been past the pet frog and football stage, their interests had diverged too much. John had wanted medicine and the army, and David had been more interested in following his father's traditional footsteps. And, well, he was in line for the title, while John would need to make his own way. That had made sense, but it hadn't left them with much to talk about once the immediate family gossip had been covered.

Watching Sherlock and Mycroft arguing from the corner of his eye, he wondered if Mycroft had deliberately set up this meeting solely so he could force Sherlock's behaviour. John knew Mycroft was aware of his and David's familial connection, so he could have arranged a meeting at any time, had he been so inclined, but he saved it for today, for this case. There had to be a reason.

Really, he wondered if the sole reason Mycroft had had him flown in by helicopter was because he didn't want John to miss this. Maybe the poor hiker's death had worried him because it took John out of the city just as he arranged the meeting between long-distant cousins.

He saw David watching the Holmeses too and grinned. "Sometimes watching Sherlock and his brother makes me feel so much better about my relationship with Harry," he said.

"They do seem unusually acrimonious, don't they? You know them well, then?"

"Sherlock, yes," John said, "Or as well as anybody. I mostly only know Mycroft from his visits with his brother—or when he wants to talk about him. Do you know, we met the first time because he kidnapped me to find out my intentions?"

"He … what?" David looked utterly shocked.

John couldn't hide his grin. "Oh, yes. Nothing violent, mind you, but it was the day we met to look at the flatshare—Mycroft had his people pick me up so he could be oblique and threatening. Not that I knew he was Sherlock's brother at the time—but he introduced himself as Sherlock's archenemy, which should tell you everything you need to know about their relationship."

"I'm speechless," David said. He looked as if he weren't sure that John was serious, or how he should take this news, but the glances he was giving Mycroft now were weighted with a hint of disapproval.

"It was nothing," John said. "Now that I know them better, well … they have one of the worst sibling relationships I've ever seen, but ultimately, it was just Mycroft looking out for his brother. Can't really complain about that."

David still looked utterly flummoxed. "But … he kidnapped you?"

John shrugged. "It was very civilized, and frankly, riding in the car was something of a relief. I was still using a cane then, and after this one commanding officer I had—not to mention the Taliban—it wasn't that big a deal. If anything, the adrenalin rush did me good. Long since water under the bridge." He took another look at his cousin who was oh-so-politely not quite staring at Mycroft, heading their way. "Really, David, it's fine. Isn't it, Mycroft?"

"What's that, John?" he asked, his lips still tight from whatever he and Sherlock had been discussing.

"I was just telling my cousin about our first meeting," John said blithely.

"You … oh." Mycroft blinked, thrown off balance in a way that Sherlock in a sheet hadn't managed to do, and John only regretted his friend wasn't there to witness it. Apparently Mycroft hadn't actually expected John to talk to David, assuming that the location and their lack of regular communication would keep John discreet.

"Did you really kidnap my cousin, Mycroft?"

"Kidnap is such a strong word, David. I merely extended an invitation."

John nodded, and said helpfully, "An invitation reinforced by manipulating the CCTV cameras and ringing every public phone I walked past. Really, it made me feel like I was in combat again, quite refreshing."

"What was this?" Sherlock was at his shoulder now and without turning his head, John could see that he looked his usual elegant self. "We were just discussing Mycroft's invitation to me the night of the Pink Lady case."

John could see Sherlock's entire demeanour brighten. "Oh yes, the first time he kidnapped you. Lucky for me, you weren't frightened off by such ridiculous tactics since you saved my life just a few hours later."

"Well, he didn't know me then," John said, a forgiving note to his voice. "And as I said to David, he did save me all that extra walking on my bad leg."

"Yes," Mycroft said smoothly, "That was after Sherlock had abandoned you at a crime scene, wasn't it?"

"He took off after a lead, yes," John said, unflustered. "My leg would have just slowed him down. He didn't have a chance to cure my limp until later that evening."

David was watching the three of them raptly. "This really is fascinating," he finally said, "But we do have a rather tight schedule."

"Of course," Mycroft agreed. "You and John can catch up some other time. I'm sure he has any number of amusing stories about my brother."

"And you, Mycroft," said John. "But by all means. I'm sure you didn't bring us here just so I could catch up with my cousin. If it was important enough to have me flown in, I imagine it's somewhat pressing?"

Mycroft nodded and the four of them moved back to the sitting area, where one of the staff had brought a tea tray. John tried not to catch Sherlock's eye—they were both on the edge of the giggles again. Sherlock looked beyond delighted that John had yanked Mycroft's chain in front of his colleague for a change. (Because, really, how often did Sherlock get to see Mycroft with one of his equals? He was usually surrounded by underlings, not colleagues. John was actually happy that Mycroft had set this up because—serious though he might be about his work, David had always had a wonderful sense of humour. The idea of the straight-laced Mycroft Holmes making a habit of kidnapping people would be just the thing to appeal to him.)

"I'll be mother," Mycroft said, reaching for the teapot.

"There's our whole childhood in a nutshell," responded Sherlock and, taking his cup of (really excellent) tea, John met David's eyes and giggled.

He really couldn't help himself.

#

There were more giggles in the cab on the way back to Baker Street. Not only had Sherlock stolen an ashtray, but that had actually been fun. Mycroft had obviously not expected David to be anything other than shocked at Sherlock's behaviour, and the fact that he had actually been amused? A rare, tactical error on Mycroft's part. But then, his sense of humour had always been stunted, thought Sherlock. He spent so much time worrying about what looked right, what was correct, he seldom let himself relax enough to truly laugh.

The same could be said of him, Sherlock supposed, except it was no longer quite true. How had he never realized what a difference a true friend would make? But then, he supposed, he had never had one. Wasn't there some kind of aphorism about not missing something you'd never had?

He had been glad to see that John and his cousin had been relaxed enough to laugh, though. After the first shock for both of them, they had seemed happy to see each other. Another misjudgement on Mycroft's part, that. He had assumed that, because they weren't in touch, that John and his cousin didn't get along, when in fact it was simply that they were both busy.

The look on Mycroft's face when John told David about that first kidnapping! Oh, Sherlock would carefully file that away for future reference. Really, John had deserved the ashtray. Who would have guessed he would actually tease Mycroft Holmes inside Buckingham Palace? It was unprecedented and wholly delightful.

It had been interesting, really, to watch his brother talk to John. There had been a slight shift in their relationship since Mycroft had learned John's grandfather was an Earl. It wasn't something that affected John at all, not really, but Mycroft had an annoyingly inbred respect for titles and the mental shift from "ex-army doctor" to "grandson of an earl" had altered his attitude toward John.

Not that Sherlock objected. Even though John's demeanour had not changed since the revelations in July, Mycroft's kidnappings had become more genteel—usually involving tea rather than empty warehouses. He still interfered in their lives, but was less inclined to trod heavy-footed over John's life.

Fascinating, really. It wasn't a matter of Mycroft toadying to the upper class—the Holmes family had never needed to, nor had they ever done so. Both Sherlock and his brother knew that it was the inside of the man that marked quality, not the outer demeanour. Neither of them were fooled by appearances (or not often), but apparently Mycroft put more stock into bloodlines than Sherlock had realized.

Or perhaps it was his realization that John was closely connected to someone (other than Sherlock) who could wield real power on his behalf, and so Mycroft was mending fences.

Still, the entire meeting had gone swimmingly, so far as Sherlock was concerned. It would almost be a pleasure to retrieve the Woman's phone in return for having seen Mycroft look utterly flummoxed.

#

"Are we there?" John asked, looking around with trepidation.

"Close enough," Sherlock said, getting out and paying the cab. "I need you to hit me."

"What?"

"Hit me. Didn't you hear me?" He was surprised he needed to ask twice. John usually looked like he would love to hit him.

"I always hear 'hit me' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext," he said, looking around nervously, as if afraid someone was watching.

"Oh, for goodness…" Sherlock muttered, just before hauling off and punching John in the jaw. That should do it, he thought, and felt a sense of smugness at how easy John was to manipulate when John punched him back.

The tackle, though, took him by surprise.

"You forget, Sherlock, I was in the army."

"You were a doctor!" Sherlock said, struggling against John's headlock.

"I had bad days," John told him fiercely.

Sherlock didn't want this to descend into a brawl, but he really had things to do. Before he could act, though, a voice came across the mews. "Oi! What's going on over there? Do I need to call the police?"

Ah, that worked. John immediately released him and Sherlock straightened, pulling his jacket straight as John said, "No, we're sorry. It was just a misunderstanding…"

His voice trailed off though as he saw the speaker, which sharpened Sherlock's attention. Why would John look so nervous?

"John Brandon? Whatever are you doing here?"

#


	8. Chapter 8

"John Brandon? Whatever are you doing here?"

Oh God, this can't be happening, thought John. How had he lost track of their location in the cab? Why hadn't he realized how close they were?

"Mrs McTavish," he said. "I can explain … or, no, I can't really. But really, it's nothing…"

"Nothing? I don't see you for months, young man, and then I find you brawling in the street? Come over and give me a hug"

John could almost feel his toes curling in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry. I was just … I don't even know how to explain."

"Just do what you always do, John, and blame me," Sherlock said, practically oozing charm as he introduced himself. "Sherlock Holmes, friend and flatmate. I do apologize for the disturbance."

"You should," John muttered. "It _was_ your fault."

"I asked you to punch me, not tackle me to the ground."

"Yeah, well, it was too good a chance to pass up," John said, trying his own smile out as he rallied his manners. "Sherlock, this is Mrs McTavish, who makes the best mince pies in the country. And, Mrs McTavish, seriously, there's nothing wrong. We didn't mean to bother you. It was just … well…"

"Are you coming to see your grandfather, then?" Mrs McTavish asked, hands on her hips.

"Well, not right now. We're on a ca…"

"…Tight schedule," inserted Sherlock. "And we're going to be late."

"At least come in and let me see to that face of yours. You're bleeding, young man."

But Sherlock was already edging away, leaving John with the explanations like always. "I really don't have time to explain," he was starting to say when one of the upper windows opened and an elderly man leaned out, asking what all the fuss was.

"Oh god," John muttered under his breath as Sherlock spun on his heel, face lit with sudden interest. "Hello, Grandfather. I'm so sorry to bother you. Believe me, this was _not_ my idea." He cast a dirty look at his flatmate and wondered if Sherlock had somehow set all this up, if Sherlock knew his grandfather's address.

"For not wanting to bother, you're doing a fine job of it, John."

"Yes, I know … I'm sorry. Can I call you later to explain?"

He watched his grandfather taking in the details—Sherlock's bleeding face, John's obvious mortification … and, no doubt, the way Sherlock was actually torn between wanting to stay and explore John's living family history and following the case while the cut on his face was still fresh. (Though, really, John would be more than happy to hit him again.)

Finally, though, his grandfather nodded. "Be sure you do. You've got me quite curious—and if you're apologetic enough, Mrs McTavish might even bake some of her scones for you when you come around."

"God knows I've missed them," John said, darting forward to give the woman's cheek a kiss before chasing after Sherlock.

#

What with one thing and another (CIA, near-death experience, nude woman, drugged flatmate, the usual), John was too busy to call for the next several hours, but once they were finally back at Baker Street and Sherlock safely passed out in his bed, he picked up his phone. "Grandfather?

"_Ah, John. I was starting to think you'd forgotten me._" His voice was calm and smooth, laced with affection.

"Never," John told him. "But things got a bit out of hand—as usual. Not to sound like I'm making excuses, but for his own bizarre reasons, Sherlock needed a bleeding face and asked me to punch him. I didn't expect we'd be there long enough to bother anyone—especially you."

"_He needed…_ Why_ did your friend need to be bleeding, John?_" his grandfather asked.

"A good question, but not an easy one to answer other than to say that Sherlock has his own, unique way of doing things. I can't explain it. I just try to keep the mayhem down to a reasonable level."

"_Mayhem? John … what on earth have you gotten yourself into? You're not in any kind of trouble, are you?_"

"What? No," John protested automatically. Then, remembering that he'd almost had a bullet in his brain earlier, added, "Not really. Just the usual thing."

"_And what kind of 'usual' thing requires my grandson to brawl in public? What kind of friend is he, John?_"

"Didn't Father tell you?" John was surprised. He hadn't imagined that news of his current vocation wouldn't have spread on the family grapevine … but then, David hadn't even known he was out of the army so clearly it wasn't reliable anymore. "His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he's a Consulting Detective. He helps out the police when they need him—and I help _him_."

"_But you're a doctor, John,_" his grandfather protested.

"I am; I often give my opinion about cause of death when we're on a case. But I also spent nearly twenty years in the army, Grandfather. The excitement suits me better than a regular office job … Seriously, I'm surprised Father didn't mention this. He's known for months now. He even reads my blog."

He shut his mouth abruptly. The last thing he needed was his grandfather going to his site and reading about his adventures with Sherlock. The man worried about the whole family enough as it was, and John knew how upset he'd been when John had been shot. He didn't want him spending all his time fretting about John's safety.

"_I didn't know you had a blog, John. What's the address?_"

Crap, John thought as he told him. What was his 90-year old grandfather doing knowing what a blog even was? "Do you know who I saw today," he asked, desperately trying to change the topic. "David."

"_Really? That's good to hear. How long has it been since the two of you saw each other?_"

"Oh, since before I left the army. Actually," John said, unable to resist a smile, "The family grapevine really needs some improvements. He didn't even know I had been shot. I would have thought that would have spread pretty quickly. I mean, I haven't seen much of everyone in a while, but frankly, I'm a little hurt that didn't warrant a _little_ interest. No wonder I got so few Get Well cards."

His voice was gently teasing, but his grandfather's was serious when he answered. "_That was your father's idea, actually. He didn't want to add extra pressure on you while you were recovering, and then, well…_"

"…You get to a certain point where it's a little awkward to say, 'Oh, John? He was shot months ago and is back in London, didn't you know?'"

"_Exactly._" There was silence for a few moments and then his grandfather asked, "_Do you have plans for tomorrow?_"

"Not that I know of," John said cautiously, "But that's been known to change fairly quickly around here. Crime doesn't usually schedule itself in advance, and we never know when the police will call."

There was a 'humph' sound across the line, but all his grandfather said was, "_Then, assuming the criminals of London cooperate, I expect you _and_your flatmate here for tea tomorrow afternoon. Mrs McTavish will make scones or those oatcakes you like so much, and your friend can explain why he felt it was necessary to start a fight behind my house_."

Oh God, thought John. This was like a nightmare. He tried to protest, thinking about how much Sherlock was going to hate this, how hard it would be to drag him along, how likely it was that he would insult John's grandfather, but it was all in vain. His grandfather insisted.

Well, thought John, there was always the possibility that Moriarty would strike again tomorrow morning. Just then there was a thump from Sherlock's room and his friend was calling his name. He would worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

#

"Don't be silly, John. I'm delighted to come."

Sherlock meant it, too. His biggest regret about yesterday (beside having been outwitted by The Woman), was the lost opportunity to meet John's grandfather properly. When he had picked that spot for their fisticuffs, he had never expected to see the man himself. The best Sherlock had expected was a chance to see John's family home—more or less. It might not have been where he'd spent his childhood, but he would have visited often. Disturbing the man enough to cause him to come to the window had been an unexpected bonus.

Besides, in his experience, John's family was still less annoying than Mycroft ever was. Just the thought of his smug condescension this morning after almost getting John killed … even John's alcoholic sister had to be less horrible. Meeting his grandfather? Sherlock was almost looking forward to it.

He admitted he needed the distraction. Yesterday hadn't gone the way he'd planned. He'd lost both Ms Adler and her camera phone, and been drugged senseless to boot. Not exactly a rousing success, even if he did believe The Woman wouldn't use the photos as blackmail—not as long as she was left alone. Meeting the patriarch of the Watson … or, rather, the Brandon clan would be a welcome distraction.

Frankly, the looks of scepticism being sent his way from the other side of the cab were a little insulting.

"I'm serious, John. I look forward to meeting your grandfather, and I owe him an apology for yesterday. I didn't mean to get you into trouble."

John laughed. "With my grandfather, Or with the CIA? Getting me into trouble seems to be your favourite hobby, Sherlock."

"Yes, well, your reactions are always so entertaining," he said, teasing. "And you know full well that I had no idea the CIA was going to be there."

"Mmm. But did you know that was my grandfather's house?"

"Well…" What was he supposed to say? Which was less likely to get him into trouble with John? That he had deliberately stopped at that address out of curiosity? Or was it better to let him think it was coincidental? Judging by the look John was giving him, though, he'd taken too long thinking of his answer, and so he came clean. "I knew, but I didn't expect that we'd see anyone. The odds at that time of day…"

"You're unbelievable, Sherlock," John told him. "Why didn't you just ask if you wanted to meet him?"

Sherlock resisted the temptation to sink down in the seat. "You were so cagy about his very existence, John, how could I know you'd be amenable to an introduction? Besides, as I said, I did not expect to bother anyone yesterday. I just … wanted to see."

"So you combined a case for your brother with a recon mission on my grandfather," John said, voice flat.

"Well, yes," Sherlock said. "It was the first opportunity I'd had to get you to the area. The case for Mycroft was purely incidental."

John just stared at him and Sherlock braced himself for whatever outrage was to come, but to his relief, his friend just started to laugh.

#

Later, they sat sipping tea and eating Mrs McTavish's really excellent oatcakes. (John had loved them since he was a child and was grateful she'd made them—if only because it would avoid Sherlock's comparisons to Mrs Hudson's also excellent baking. She made scones often, but never oatcakes.)

So far, he was relieved to see that Sherlock was behaving. He wasn't sure why this was still such a surprise, honestly. Sherlock had behaved in front of John's father, too, and had even reined in his worst impulses in front of David yesterday. John supposed he was just not used to seeing Sherlock exercising self-restraint in social situations. (Though, really, how often did he see Sherlock in truly _social_ situations, as opposed to case-related business? Now he thought about it, Sherlock tended to get quiet (bored?) during the rare social event—it was totally unlike his usual behaviour but was definitely polite. Unless it was with Mycroft, of course.)

Still, the icy edge to this conversation wasn't Sherlock's fault. Even Mrs McTavish's tea was doing nothing toward thawing the air between Grandfather and Sherlock.

John wasn't entirely sure why. His grandfather was usually polite and friendly to everyone and, well, he was certainly being polite, but there was nothing warm or cordial about his manner as he talked to Sherlock. "So, John tells me you're a Consulting Detective?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I invented the job."

"How does it differ from a private detective?"

John tried not to smile at the insulted look on Sherlock's face. "Private detectives abound, but they do not get consulted by Scotland Yard when its force is out of its depth."

John's grandfather looked sceptical rather than amused, though all he said was, "Indeed. You're related to the Sussex Holmes?"

"Sherrinford is my father," Sherlock said, his voice even but obviously unwilling to go further.

"His brother works somehow with David," John put in. "I'm not sure how, but they definitely know each other. Mycroft has some minor position with the government, apparently, though I'm never sure exactly what it is. It's actually through him that we saw David yesterday. The four of us had tea together, didn't we, Sherlock?"

It was all he could do not to kick him when Sherlock just nodded and said in his most superior voice, "Yes, it was lovely."

John cast an apologetic look toward his grandfather. "Sherlock and Mycroft don't exactly get along, but we don't see him that often, so…"

"Only when your flat is nearly blown up, John? Or possibly when you've been strapped into a bomb?"

"What…?" Oh no. John knew that tone of voice. Nothing good ever came from that tone.

"I was really quite fascinated when I read your blog yesterday afternoon," his grandfather continued. "Even allowing for a certain amount of literary license, the stories paralleled certain headlines I remember quite accurately. I thought you were done risking your life, now you were home, John?" His grandfather directed these words at John, but did not take his eyes off Sherlock as he spoke.

"I don't risk my life deliberately, Grandfather," John said. "I just do what I have to do."

"Have to? I thought you were a doctor, John?"

"I am," John said, trying hard not to feel (or sound) like a twelve-year old getting scolded. "I do some part-time locum work to keep my hand in, but…"

He might have not spoken at all as his grandfather—every inch the Earl—addressed Sherlock. "And you, Mr Holmes? How does your brother feel about your death-defying stunts in the name of justice?"

Sherlock calmly took a sip of his tea. "He worries, of course, but ultimately he knows he can't stop me, not when I'm being productive and helping the good people of London. And then, he worries much less now that John works with me. His medical and tactical advice is incredibly helpful, as is his constant support."

John cast a sideways glance at his friend. He was laying it on a little thick, wasn't he? Though that was better than a casual dismissal of John's contributions, which is what he'd normally expect to hear.

"You've turned my grandson into a sidekick, Mr Holmes."

John winced, but Sherlock gave a minute shake to his head. "A partner, sir, and a friend."

"The lesser partner, it seems to me, always being sent on errands you seem to feel beneath you, brought along merely to boost your ego."

John opened his mouth to protest. He was sitting right here! And he chose to do those things. Given a choice, he would always rather be useful than not, and if it helped Sherlock, he was happy to help. A look from his friend silenced him, though.

"In deductive ability, it's true, my skills are greater than John's, but he's only been doing this a few months. His medical expertise is greater than mine, though. There are times when he generously offers to run errands for me so I can concentrate on the puzzle at hand, but that in no way makes him a lesser partner—or lesser anything. Indeed, he's been invaluable and has saved my life a number of times. I don't know what I would do without him."

The Earl's voice was icy as he responded, "Perhaps you don't, but it does not necessarily follow that this makes John better off."

"That's enough," said John, inserting himself into this conversation, unable to sit on the side-lines any longer. "It's my choice, Grandfather, and I am able to make my own decisions. It's not like I'm doing anything I'm ashamed of—nor should you be."

His grandfather looked at John and said, "I could never be ashamed of you, John. Nor am I questioning your good intentions. I am merely ascertaining whether your contributions are properly appreciated."

"Well, they are," John told him bluntly. "Now stop interrogating Sherlock, and we'll tell you why we were fighting in the mews yesterday … though this is all highly confidential, mind you. David and Mycroft know, but otherwise … I know I don't have to tell you about the need for discretion."

He reached for another oatcake and took a sip of his tea, casting a wary glance at Sherlock to gauge his humour and mood, and then said, "It started when I arrived at Buckingham Palace to find Sherlock…"

#

Later, back at Baker Street, Sherlock asked, "How worried were you this afternoon? That your grandfather would disapprove of what you were doing? Working with me?"

John was pouring water into the teapot. Tea with his grandfather always reminded him how much better loose-leaf tea was, and made him long for it … at least for a couple days, until the tea bag's convenience won him back to the dark side. He put the lid on and turned toward the living room. "Not worried, exactly, but…"

"You crave his approval."

John tipped his head, thinking. "I wouldn't go so far as to say 'crave,' but … something like that. He's head of the family, after all, and while this isn't exactly feudal times where he can order me not to see you again, or anything, it would have been … difficult if he hadn't approved."

He watched Sherlock's eyebrow twitch, and responded to the unspoken comment. "I know, family obligations are dull, but not all of us can shrug them off as easily as you have."

"And yet you shrugged off the entire family _name_."

John gave a short smile. "Yes, true, but luckily my grandfather understood my reasons at the time and supported my decision. I'm not saying he totally approved, but he still let me."

"Would you have gone through with it—the name change—if he had not?"

"I don't know," John said with a shrug. "I was just as stubborn then, but I was only eighteen—still used to obeying commands."

Sherlock smirked. "And then you went into the army."

A laugh this time as John turned back to the teapot. "Yeah, well … I'm more stubborn now, and know how to fight for what I want."

There was a pause and then Sherlock asked, a note of hesitation in his voice. "And you have no regrets?"

"Working with you?" John asked, reading between the lines. "No, how could I? I hesitate to mention it, Sherlock, since your ego is big enough as it is, but you're the best thing that ever happened to me. I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you."

Sherlock accepted the cup of tea with a nod and said, "No, you'd be comfortably ensconced somewhere with a practice on Harley Street as your father's heir."

"No, you idiot. I turned my back on that years ago. I'm talking about being here, doing this … it's rewarding in a way I hadn't thought I'd find again after I lost the army. I wouldn't turn my back on you and your Work for anything."

"Not even your grandfather?" Sherlock asked, blowing across the surface of his tea.

"Not even for him," said John, sitting in his chair and taking a sip from his own cup. "Damn, I need to do this more often."

"Make tea? But John, you do that all the time."

But John just smiled at him and shook his head. Idiot. He was sitting in his chair after a full day, chatting with his best friend without bullets or assassins and no dominatrix in sight—and with a cup of really excellent tea.

He wouldn't change a thing.

#


	9. Chapter 9

**EPILOGUE: CHRISTMAS PARTY**

"Why did I need to come to this party, again?" Sherlock asked. "Your grandfather hates me."

"Don't exaggerate. Besides, you should be used to people hating you. Luckily, most of them don't know you as well as I do … or they'd _really_hate you." John told him, handing him a drink snatched from a passing waiter. "That was a joke, Sherlock. Relax."

"Really, John, how relaxed do you expect me to be at a party? I thought you knew me better than that."

John laughed. "This really doesn't bode well for our party next week, does it?"

"Clearly you're a bad influence on me," Sherlock said, scanning the room. "Your grandfather's not down yet?"

"Sometimes he prefers to make an entrance," John said, "And we're actually early."

Sherlock sniffed. "Of course we are. You practically rushed me out the door, muttering about mince pies."

"What can I say? No disrespect to Mrs Hudson's excellent baking, but I've never tasted any mince pies as good as Mrs McTavish's."

"John! That's practically sacrilege, especially considering how Mrs Hudson coddles us even though she's not our housekeeper."

"Just the mince pies, Sherlock, that I've loved since I was five. You can't beat childhood favourites, and there's no sense trying. It's not that Mrs Hudson's mince pies aren't excellent, but they're not the ones I grew up with. Just let it go."

"Ah, John, going on about the mince pies again?" A light, female voice asked from behind them.

"Sarah. It's good to see you, and you Jimmy," he said to the sullen teen trailing behind his cousin as he gave her a kiss on the cheek. "And, are you kidding? My only regret about the years I was deployed over Christmas was that I missed them—and seeing you lot, of course. How are you doing?"

"Well enough. You heard about the divorce?"

"Yes, I was sorry to hear it—though Andrew was never good enough for you."

"That's true," she said with an emphatic nod. "So … no uniform this year? You know it's always a treat to see you in your dress uniform."

"Not really appropriate anymore, now that I'm a civilian again," he told her.

She nodded, eyes slightly wide, but her son was outright staring at John. "What do you mean you're not in the army, anymore, Cousin John?"

John took another sip of his drink to wet his suddenly dry mouth. "Just that. I'm surprised you hadn't heard." Well, he wasn't really, since he'd already seen how pathetic the family grapevine was these days—nothing at all like when his mother was still alive and news and rumours would spread at light speed.

"Did you get shot, or something?" The teen's voice was a little too eager, and John froze, dreading the questions that were coming. The last thing he wanted to do was go over his war injury at the family Christmas party. He gave a brief nod, though. "As a matter of fact, I was."

"Cool," the boy breathed. Why were boys so blood-thirsty?

"Not the word I would have picked," Sherlock said, inserting himself into the conversation with aplomb as he glanced sideways at John.

"Oh, sorry," John said, grateful for the chance to change the topic. "This is Sherlock Holmes, my friend, flatmate, and colleague these days. Sherlock, my cousin Sarah and her son Jimmy."

"Oh, are you a doctor, too?" Sarah asked, eyeing Sherlock's elegant suit.

"No, Consulting Detective," Sherlock said,

To John's surprise, Jimmy's face lit up. "Sherlock Holmes? I've read about you. On that blog I told you about, Mum, you remember? With Dr Watson… Wait a minute… That's _you_, Cousin John?"

He was staring at John now, who tried not to look as surprised as he felt. Not so much that someone was reading his blog, but that his own cousin hadn't recognized him when his picture was right there at the top. He nodded though, and almost felt Jimmy's attention ratchet up another notch until he was practically buzzing with excitement. "Cousin John! That's _amazing_! And, Mr Holmes. That's … you're just … brilliant. Are all those stories _true_?"

Sarah looked as surprised as John felt. "I beg your pardon, Mr Holmes. Believe me, he doesn't usually get this excited … about anything."

"Sherlock, please," he told her. "Both of you. Truly, though, I can't take any of the credit for John's blog."

"Considering how you abuse my writing style, titles, and just about everything about it, I should hope not," John said, unable to prevent a smile.

"But, the cases," Jimmy said, face avid with interest, "They're real, right?"

John nodded. "Except for occasionally changing the names for some of the more sensitive ones, yes. All true."

"Romanticized and ignoring many of the important details," Sherlock said, agreeing, "But essentially true."

"That's just … brilliant!"

Sherlock smiled and glanced at John. "Must be the DNA."

"Yes, Sherlock. We'll start up a fan-club for you, right here, so we can keep it in the family," John said, but then hastily added, "I was kidding," when Jimmy's face got even more excited.

Sarah had been watching, amused, but now said, "I'm confused, though. I thought the blogger's name was Watson? Are you using a pen-name, John?"

"Not exactly," he said. He supposed this had been inevitable—his family finding out about his name now that they knew about Sherlock. "I've always used Watson professionally. These days, almost no-one knows me as John Brandon."

"Really?" She looked utterly stunned. "Why on earth would you do that? Does Grandfather know?"

"Of course I do," came the Earl's voice. (When had he come in?) "John started using his Mother's name right after she died, when you were, what, eighteen, John?"

John looked around, surprise at the number of people gathered around, staring at him and Sherlock. He caught a glimpse of his cousin David, looking smug, and had an idea exactly how his blog information had spread through the family. "Yes, just about twenty years, now."

"But why?"

"It's a long story," John said, uncomfortable at all the attention.

Everyone looked interested, though, and he suddenly realized that—even if he hadn't seen most of these people for two years—he hated to disappoint them. "I started using Watson the summer my mother died, just as I went off to school, and then it was just easier to carry that into the army with me … I was Captain Watson, not Brandon, up until about six months ago, when I was shot."

He gestured toward his shoulder. "There was just enough nerve damage to end my days as a surgeon, but when I came back to London, I met Sherlock and found that my skills from the army are well-suited for chasing criminals—and patching up Consulting Detectives. It also gave a purpose to that appalling blog my therapist wanted me to start during convalescence—you've seen the early posts, right? Pathethic. The rest, as they say, is history."

"But … the stories on the blog … they can't possibly be _true_."

John looked over at his cousin Stephen, calculating. He'd always detested the man—one of the rare bad apples in an otherwise pretty good family. About the only good thing you could say about him right now was that he wasn't drunk yet. Because, really, he was an even worse drunk than Harry. "They are, though. I don't even exaggerate. I don't have to." He glanced at his flatmate, gauging his mood, then said, "Sherlock? Would you like to show him?"

Sherlock looked at him, momentarily surprised, and then a flash of devilish humour crossed his face. "I don't know what you'd like me to say, John. Is it that your … cousin? Yes, third cousin. That he is sceptical because he is jealous of the attention you're getting? He had hoped to impress your grandfather with his new business venture tonight, but because David has so helpfully passed your blog address to what appears to be the entire family, he has no hope of creating the kind of buzz he wanted. A good thing, too, since he's so anxious to make a go of it—you can see his cuffs are frayed, and the lines of strain by his eyes—that he hasn't vetted his new partners as well as he should. He's taking their claims at surface value because he's desperate. Money's been tight for some time—his hair needs a trim, which he was unable to get for the party, even though he was hoping to impress."

John watched his friend carefully, ready to cut him off if he took this too far, but Sherlock looked as aware of their audience as he was. Having seen Sherlock in deductive mode, he knew letting Sherlock loose on his family was potentially a huge mistake—and he hated to use his flatmate's abilities as a parlour trick—but he wanted them to be as impressed as he was.

And, well, he had cordially detested Stephen since he was seven and found he didn't mind a certain amount of embarrassment on his behalf—petty though that might be.

John felt a little badly, though, as Stephen shifted on his feet, looking as if he'd suddenly welcome the ability of becoming invisible. Before he could say anything to Sherlock, though, his friend had passed on to Anna, David's wife, commenting on her still-early pregnancy and how they hoped for a boy to pass the title to in years to come. Jennifer's boyfriend was deduced and complimented for his honourable intentions. (Though Sherlock told John later he had refrained from mentioning the ring-sized jewellery box in the man's pocket, saying he hadn't wanted to spoil the man's surprise when he proposed after the party.)

In short, Sherlock's deductions were a smash success. The fine folk at the Yard would never believe this, John thought, as he watched Sherlock deliberately charm an entire room full of people without once crossing the line into inappropriate conjecture. (Well, not once he was done with Stephen, but even there John thought he had restrained himself admirably.)

"Well, now I know what to do next time we're short on money," John told Sherlock as he examined the food on the catering table. "Give you a satin turban and cape, call you The Great Sherlock, and put you in front of a crowd of sceptics and let you deduce their personal histories for money. It'll be a smash and the money will just roll right in."

"Satin? Really, John. I'm not a charlatan," Sherlock sniffed. "A dinner jacket would be much classier, don't you think?"

"True," John said with a grin. "Though the satin would scandalize Mycroft more."

"Hmm. There is that." Sherlock selected a single canapé from one of the platters and popped it in his mouth. "You don't seem angry."

John's eyebrows lifted. "Why would I be angry? You did exactly what I wanted you to do. If anything, I'd think you'd be upset with me."

"Me? Why?" Sherlock seemed honestly surprised.

"Because I basically used you and your talents solely because Stephen has annoyed me since we were kids?"

"Oh, please," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "That was nothing. You should have seen my classmates at Uni. They couldn't stand me—well, you met Sebastian—but they were more than happy to take advantage of my skills when they needed them."

"Great," said John. "So now I'm just like Sebastian."

Sherlock shook his head. "You misunderstood. _They_ used me. They felt nothing but contempt for me, but had no compunction about using my talents when it would help them—after which they would immediately go back to ignoring and insulting me. You, on the other hand, are my_friend_."

"A friend who's using you to impress his family."

"A friend for whom I was able to do a favour."

"Really?" John asked, looking askance at Sherlock. "You don't mind?"

"On the contrary, it was quite enjoyable, if a little dull. Your family is remarkably free of dirty secrets, John. It's quite frustrating."

"Not that you would have outed any if you had seen them, though … right?"

Sherlock smiled. "Well, maybe not in public. After all, I was trying to be on my best behaviour."

"You did admirably," John told him. "They might even be willing to invite us back again next year."

"Let's not press our luck."

John reached over and handed Sherlock a mince pie and then took one for himself. "So… different than Holmes family gatherings?"

Sherlock scanned the room, noting the groups of people chatting comfortably, the sounds of laughter coming from the children in the corners. The entire atmosphere was relaxed and warm, and the difference between this and the Holmes Christmas dinners he'd grown up with were manifold. "If this were my family," he finally said, "Everyone would be too busy having important, boring conversations to laugh. The old saying that children should be seen and not heard is still very much enforced, and, in general, we don't seem to like each other very much. It's not nearly this … pleasant."

John turned toward the room, taking in the general feeling of love and good cheer. "Every family's different, I suppose. Though I'd imagine your relatives talk about more important things than the latest rugby match?"

"They wouldn't be caught dead discussing sport," Sherlock told him, nibbling at the mince pie. "Don't underestimate your family, though. They seem intelligent enough."

"Well, thanks for that."

"Even if they were completely unaware of your having changed your name these last twenty years. Or that you were shot and invalided out of the army half a year ago."

John just chuckled. "Yeah, well, maybe not the fastest on the uptake. Good mince pies, though—even if they aren't Mrs Hudson's."

Sherlock wiped a crumb from his lip with a small nod and a sound of enjoyment. "It'll be our secret."

Another convert to Mrs McTavish's mince pies, thought John as he saw Sherlock reach for another one. He could only hope this hadn't been a tactical error—now there were fewer for him.

Still … it was Christmas. His family was well and happy, and Sherlock was actually eating. It might get dull at times, but at moments like this, Peace on Earth was nothing short of wonderful.

THE END.

* * *

NOTE:

A little on the sweet and sentimental side (more than a little?) but still ... it rounds it out nicely and brings it level with part 1, with Sherlock being introduced to John's family and ending with John happily eating mince pies. (Some things are meant to stay the same!)

This brings this story to a close. I have another idea for this little series of AUs of AUs, though ... but another story is clamoring to be written first, so...


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